


Bind You Together

by Lapin



Series: These Are The Days [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arkenstone theft, Betrayal, Bilbo is not yet forgiven, Bind you together, Children, Consequences, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarves, Dwelfs, Erebor, F/M, Fíli as King, Grief, King Under the Mountain, M/M, Marriage, Mourning, Regrets, They are a thing, They must all deal with it, Thorin Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin dies, and leaves Bilbo here, all alone. Fíli marries Ori, and rebuilds Erebor with his brother and his consort. Children are born, and grow. And eventually, thirty years pass, and Bilbo steps foot in Erebor again, searching for a ghost he knows left him long ago, and friendships that might never be rebuilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoriousscarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/gifts).



> Title comes from the Bastille song, "Bad Blood"

Bilbo always knew Erebor would be beautiful. 

Thirty years now, and the Dwarves have turned Erebor into a sight. Smaug's fire has been scrubbed away to show buildings that glitter in the torchlight, statues that throw the fires based within all around, until they are shining stars on their pedestals, the waters from the fountains like liquid gemstones. 

This is the Erebor Thorin knew as a young man, Bilbo thinks. 

This is what he sought, for all those years. 

It's been three decades already, but now a fresh wave of grief and agony sweeps through his chest, thinking of Thorin, wind-tossed and wild, blue eyes bright in the dying sun. This is how it usually is these days though; hours and hours, days and days, and then _there_ , like a knife to the belly, his grief finding the soft spots on him. 

Out of habit, he fiddles with his ring in his pocket, the shape of it familiar and comforting under his fingers. 

“Bilbo!” 

He turns to see Balin, his arms outstretched to take Bilbo by the elbows, gently knocking their foreheads together. “Hello, my old friend,” Bilbo greets, his heart lifting to see his friend after so long. Over the years, Balin has been his only correspondent, and it was Balin who invited him here for the celebration. 

“Good journey?” Balin asks, releasing him.

“Yes,” Bilbo says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I managed to stay with the caravans the whole way, thankfully. I'll be going back with them too, so that's a relief.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Balin replies, leading Bilbo further into the palace. The guards at the Gates had been expecting him, and taken him here straightaway, for which Bilbo was grateful. He couldn't imagine finding anything within the mountain on his own. The different levels alone would have had him confused. “Come along, come along, the king will be...well, I suppose he'll be pleased to see you. Who knows? He is Thorin's sister-son, after all!” And that's a joke, but neither of them can find it funny. 

“How is the Lion King?” Bilbo asks, because some stories have reached him, of Fíli driving the Orcs back into Mordor, the intense patrols of the borders between their countries, the fiercely made alliances between the Elves of Mirkwood and the Elves of the Shifting Sands and Blacklock Dwarves. “Continuing to surpass expectations?”

“Aye,” Balin says, raising his white eyebrows. “And his sons will surpass even him, I suspect.”

“Sons?” Now it's Bilbo raising an eyebrow. “Fíli has had children?” Balin had not written of this, but then Bilbo had never asked. He had not parted friends with Thorin's nephews, or really anyone but Balin. And he had not really wanted to know, if he was honest. Thinking of Thorin, and the boys he had left behind, the way they had been so changed before Bilbo after the battle, after Thorin had been laid to rest, has been almost unbearable most of the time. Better to keep those thoughts close to heart, away from the light of day. 

“Had no choice, did he?” Balin says, shrugging. “Kíli chose to tie us to the Elves, and no half-breed could be an heir. I admit, I did not approve of bringing the Ri brothers on our quest, but Ori turned out to be a blessing in the end.”

There's a name Bilbo hasn't heard in years now. Balin has been careful with what he tells Bilbo, as any Dwarf would be, keeping his letters contained to Erebor and Dale and Men and Elves, and most of all, Bilbo's book. “What does Ori have to do with anything?” 

Balin frowns at Bilbo, in that way that the Dwarves always did when Bilbo didn't understand something they thought was obvious. “I wrote to you of this. When you did not reply, I assumed you did not want to speak on it yet. Ori is the Prince Consort. He's given Fíli three sons, and another child on the way. Hopefully a daughter, to ease the Princess' heart. She longs for a granddaughter to pass on the ways.”

“...A granddaughter?” Bilbo feels pole-axed, trying to figure out where this conversation turned so confusing. 

“Aye, what with Kíli only making a son as well. She's rather disappointed, so far. Though truthfully, I did not think he would bear another after the pair. It was hard on him. Still, many children in so little time is a blessing from Mahal. It reassures our people.” He sighs, his hands clasped behind him as they walk. Privately, Bilbo reels at the idea of three children in thirty years considered _many_ , but then, most Hobbits would have that many in four years, if not more. “The boys are very much their father and uncle. Kíli's lad and His Royal Highness are as thick as thieves. I suspect Ori would just like a change of pace.” 

“I suspect this is something our peoples do not share,” Bilbo says at last, swallowing to keep himself from panicked laughter. _Of course_ , he thinks. What strange folk Aulë fashioned. “Ori, though? Three, with another coming?” And perhaps that is even stranger, to think of Ori having children. Thorin had once explained to him the words Dwarrows had to distinguish one another, translating to _craft-dwarf_ , and _love-dwarf_ , meaning Dwarrows who found their calling in their craft and those that found theirs in company, in love, in children. Ori had always struck Bilbo as a craft-dwarf, someone who valued their trade, their talent. He had been so proud of his book on their journey, so careful with every sketch, his maps as precise as any Bilbo had ever seen. “I never would have thought.”

“Yes, well...” Balin coughs politely. “Neither did I, if I'm honest. I doubt you'd remember, but the lad was my apprentice still on our journey. Still, he was very young then. Still very young, as a matter of fact. We change as we get older.” He taps his nose, conspiratorially. “And when a young king is after you, what can you do? I admit, if I was a young creature, I could be swayed by our Lion King.” 

“That I can believe,” Bilbo concedes, remembering Thorin more than Fíli, Thorin who called Fíli his heart-son in the privacy of their blankets, told Bilbo how much Fíli was himself at that age, how he knew Fíli would one day lead their people. Too soon, of course. Far too soon, for Thorin's heart-son to take the Raven Crown on his fair head. Bilbo can still picture it in his mind, the Coronation, Fíli's sombre face, and on his right, his brother's blank look.

Ori had stood to Fíli's left that day, hadn't he? That sorrowful look on his young face, for all the dead. He had seemed so small without Dori beside him, bustling and fussing. Bilbo has managed to avoid thinking of that day for so many years, but now he remembers, and feels an odd touch of guilt. Perhaps he should have tried to reach out to Ori again, after tempers had cooled. 

“Three sons?” Bilbo asks, to keep the conversation going, honestly still a bit stunned. He knew Thorin had two siblings, but he had given the implication that Dwarrows usually had a bit more time between children.

“Yes, three. Dírin, and then the pair, Torin and Dorin.” Balin shakes his head.

“Twins?” When Balin nods, looking more than a touch proud, Bilbo smiles. “So, named for the Princess, Thorin, and Dori?” Again, Balin nods, but though the pride remains, the smile is gone. “Do they...?”

“Dírin is blond, like Fíli. Many saw that as lucky as well, that Mahal would give us another golden prince. But the pair is...” Balin swallows, and it looks painful. Bilbo remembers Thorin telling him how Balin had always been in his life. An adviser. Practically an uncle, where Dwalin was a brother. “Black-haired and blue-eyed and bad-tempered. Like Dís. And Dori.” There's so much pain in Balin's face, when he says, “Exactly like _he_ was, as a child.” 

And Bilbo does not question that, because at this point in their walk, two children, only to Bilbo's knee, dash towards Balin, a blond boy and a taller, thinner black-haired one in hot pursuit. The pair both hide behind Balin, while the blond shouts after them, the other boy glaring hard. 

The pair truly are Thorin, young. 

“I'm going to thrash you both!” the blond child shouts.

“Like to see you try!” one of the pair shouts back, while the other sticks his tongue out. 

“You're both dead,” the other boy hisses, advancing with long steps, the blond with him, both seemingly uncaring of Balin. But then, Balin seems perfectly unconcerned about the whole matter. 

“Prissy weed-eater,” one of the pair hisses, and the blond turns red in rage while two spots of colour rise on the taller one's face. This is Kíli's son, Bilbo realizes suddenly. _Half-breed_. 

“I'm telling Father you said that!” the blond, Dírin, says, lunging forward, only for the other boy to stop him, his brown eyes on Bilbo. “Why'd you stop me?” The tall boy hitches his chin at Bilbo, and Dírin notices him at last. 

“Ah, here we are,” Balin says, cheerfully. “Bilbo, allow me to introduce you to the little demons.” 

When directed, Dírin inclines his head to Bilbo politely, if not stiffly, his blue eyes highly suspicious for one so young. Kíli's son is introduced as Tauris, and he too inclines his head towards Bilbo. Torin and Dorin take no such hint, their too-familiar eyes looking up at Bilbo with undisguised arrogance. 

Very much Thorin.

“Who are you?” one of the pair asks, and gets cuffed on the head by Dírin for it. “What'd you hit me for?” he demands of his brother, glaring up at him, his twin still glaring sceptically at Bilbo. 

“Lots of things,” Dírin says darkly, rolling his eyes at his cousin, who only shakes his head. _Thick as thieves_.

“You're not a Dwarf,” the other twin announces, in the way of children. “You're too little to be a Man though. But you got weed-eater ears, like Tauris.” 

“Call me that again, and I'll murder you,” Tauris says, making a motion like he means to advance on the boy. The boy flinches, and Tauris smirks. 

“Now, now, lads, let's be polite for our guest,” Balin tuts fondly, a hand on each of the pair's heads. “Or at least pretend to be while he's in the room. What would your fathers say?” 

“Father'd ask who it was,” Dírin replies smartly. “Then he'd ask if they were important, and if they're not, I can do as I like.” 

Bilbo laughs, catching himself by surprise. “Oh, but you are Fíli's son, aren't you?”

Dírin continues to watch him with deep suspicion, asking, “How come you call him by his name?” 

It's a reasonable enough question, so Bilbo replies, “Because I knew your Adad before he was the king, and still just a very silly lad who couldn't keep track of the ponies.” Someone must have told the boys the story over the years, because now Tauris announces, “You're the Hobbit. The burglar from the Company.” 

“One and the same,” Bilbo confirms, smiling down at the four of them. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

♦

The hall Balin refers to as the White Hall is indeed white. Marble, mostly, and ivory, from what Bilbo can tell. The light reflects, and makes the room even brighter. Under his feet, the floor is a mosaic, scenes made from small stones and glass and gems, depicting some old story. Not a battle, thankfully, from what he can see.

Bilbo's breath catches as the twins rush froward through the crowd, throwing themselves around the legs of a familiar figure, who only glances down at them, shaking his head. 

Ori's hair has reddened to be more like Nori's over the years, his hair grown out and worn differently, full of silver and gems today, beard still somewhat short. He is still very young, Bilbo remembers, as he watches Ori's hand drop to idly stroke one of the boys' hair, the pair content to be allowed to cling. Beside Bilbo and Balin, Dírin and Tauris are more sedate, apparently too old to be throwing themselves at parents. 

One of the Dwarves Ori is speaking to is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin, his hair bound in ropes of braids all knotted at the top of his head, studded with jewels and silver, like Ori. The Dwarf beside him is...Kíli, Bilbo realizes. Kíli, with much longer hair, in neat braids, beard to his collarbone, the braids laced with blue thread on one side, and mithril beads. He is clearly no longer a young lad, not at all. 

It's Ori who notices Bilbo with Balin, his eyes first going to his son, and there's a long pause where Bilbo worries. It has been a long time, even for their peoples, and truly, they did not part well, any of them. 

But Ori smiles, and the fear unwinds, leaving him free to walk with Balin and the boys to join the group. 

The dark-skinned Dwarf grabs at Dírin, pulling him in tight in a fierce hug. “There you are! Your Da here was telling me you were likely hiding in the ramparts!”

“Was not,” Dírin protests, not fighting the Dwarf. The Dwarf spots Tauris next, and before the slim boy can get away, the Dwarf has him too, very nearly knocking the two's heads together. “Me and Tauris were trying to get the twins.” 

“Yeah, Da, they were going to thrash us,” one of the twins complain. He has a bit of purple thread in his hair, which makes Bilbo think he's Dorin. “We didn't even do nothing.” 

“I don't believe that for an instant,” Ori says mildly, stroking the speaker's hair. He turns his eyes on Bilbo, smiling. He looks tired, in the way parents usually do, older than his years. “Hello, Bilbo. How have you been, all these years?”

“Not as good as you,” Bilbo replies. “Your children are beautiful, Ori.” 

“Wee devils, more like!” the dark-skinned Dwarf laughs, finally letting Dírin and Tauris go. “I don't know how you and Fíli manage this lot. I'd of skinned them all ages ago, and left them for the crows.” He laughs good-naturedly, his smile turning on Bilbo. “Hello there, then, Master Baggins. I've heard of you, but I doubt you've heard of me. I'm called Thorin, Thorin Stonehelm, son of Dáin.” 

Bilbo blinks, and swallows. “Of course,” he says, nodding his head. “I met your father once.” Once, a lifetime ago. 

“He told me,” Thorin, this Thorin, this other Thorin, says, nodding. “I have never seen a Hobbit before. You are rather odd looking, aren't you?”

While Bilbo bristles, Ori sighs, and says, “Bilbo, allow me to further elaborate. This is Thorin Stonehelm, son of Dáin, Lord of Tactlessness.” 

“A very Durin trait,” Bilbo says dryly, getting laughs out of all the adults. The twins appear disinterested, playing some sort of private game where they poke at one another around Ori's legs, while Dírin and Tauris look at each other, a silent conversation going on. “Were you named for Thorin Oakenshield?” When this Thorin nods, Bilbo says, “The first day Thorin and I met, he walked into my house and said I looked like a grocer.” 

And at last, Kíli speaks: “I scraped my boots on a family heirloom,” he says, his voice a touch deeper. “I believe I win.” 

“You were at least cheerful,” Bilbo says, smiling, though it hurts to think of Thorin, sweeping into his sitting room, looking down at Bilbo with those bright blue eyes of his, that arrogant smile. “And your brother tossed his swords into my arms and directed me to hang them, like I was a servant in my own home.” 

Kíli is smirking over Bilbo's head, and he knows why when he hears, “I'd forgotten that.”

He's almost afraid to turn around. 

When he does, he knows why. 

Fíli stands tall and straight, the crown on his head. His hair and beard are much longer now, his beard set with an intricate set of silver pieces that sit across the length of it. His hair is braided elaborately, full of beads as Kíli's is, though there's sapphires in Fíli's as well. The blue stands out in his golden hair, and in his fine clothes and court armour, he is a king, truly, the king Thorin always thought he could be.

“Hello, Your Majesty,” Bilbo says, because he isn't Fíli right now. He's the King of Erebor, Thorin's heir, Thorin's heart-son. 

“Hello, Master Baggins,” Fíli replies, and though they have different colouring, he is truly Thorin's son. He is, and it makes Bilbo's heart ache something terrible. 

"Father!” one of the twins shouts, Torin, Bilbo thinks, and dashes towards him. The King Under the Mountain laughs, and scoops the boy up into his arms, the child settling on his hip easily, and he is Fíli again, the laughing Dwarf Bilbo remembers who lost the ponies because he snuck off for a smoke while Kíli counted stars out of boredom. “Father, me and Dorin hid all of Dírin and Tauris' weapons! We made a treasure map!”

“Little brat,” Dirin hisses, while Tauris scowls. 

“Did you?” Fíli asks, half-laughing, while Ori shakes his head, cuffing Dorin gently around the ear. “What a clever set you are.”

“If you think they're so clever, you can help them track down all of their brother's and cousin's things, and put them back,” Ori says, Dorin choosing to cling to him anyway. 

Fíli scowls at Torin. “It's not funny when you get me in trouble too,” he says, shifting his son. “Don't you want another brother or sister?” 

“Too late,” Ori says, his palm over his own belly. 

“I don't want a sister! I want another brother!” the lad says, struggling to get down. Fíli lets him, and he and his twin dash off into the crowd, apparently forgetting the whole conversation. 

“And what about you?” Bilbo asks Fíli and Ori, still somewhat confused over the whole thing, but determined to be polite. “Balin seems to think you want a daughter.” 

“Anything but another pair,” Ori groans. “I know they're lucky, but Durin's name, I just want to kill them sometimes.” He turns his eyes down on Dírin and Tauris. “Run along, but don't you dare thrash them where anyone will see, or I'll have you both by your braids.” 

Tauris makes a face, but gets a smack from his own father over the head. “Listen to your uncle,” Kíli commands. “Go on then, go play. But stay out of trouble, or your mum will have my head when she gets home.” 

Tauris nods, and follows after Dírin. Bilbo strongly suspects they're merely taking the roundabout route to the twins, and that the two are indeed in for a thrashing. “Three children,” Bilbo says, rocking back and forth. “And another coming?”

“Yeah, apparently the little terrors aren't _that_ distracting,” Kíli mutters to Thorin, getting a chuckle from his cousin, and a smack from Ori. “What? You're knocked up, _again_. Not saying the whole of Erebor isn't thrilled, but still, four in thirty years?”

“Tauriel will let me kill you if I make her a general,” Ori threatens pleasantly. 

The other Dwarrows laugh, Kíli shaking his head as he says, “She likely would, as long as I give her a daughter first.” 

Bilbo quirks an eyebrow, still somewhat confused. “You all seem so eager for daughters. Hobbits are always eager for sons.” It's the most polite thing he can think of to say, and his father had always said that if he had nothing polite to say, it would be better to say nothing at all. “I suppose daughters are more rare for you though.” 

“They are, and they're lucky, besides,” Thorin, the other Thorin, says. “Though really, I think all of Erebor knows how Mahal smiles upon the pair of you already.” 

Fíli grins, his teeth showing behind his beard and moustaches, and comes up beside Ori, settling a clearly possessive hand on the small of his back. “And why shouldn't he? We are the Dwarves who reclaimed Erebor, who defeated Smaug. I am the Lion King, with my clever consort, who has given me four cubs, maybe even five, ” this he says into Ori's neck, making Ori laugh and Bilbo blush. He has forgotten how easy Dwarves are with physical affection, with love. 

“If this is another pair, I will murder you in your sleep,” Ori promises, allowing Fíli's arm to come around his waist, pull him in so he rests against Fíli's chest. He looks at Bilbo, with affection in his face, in his smile, and says, “Really, you have no idea. You think they look like trouble now? When they were still in me, they kicked each other and me for six months straight.”

“I really thought you were going to kill Fíli,” Kíli chuckles, throwing an arm around his cousin. He might be a bit drunk, but Bilbo isn't sure.

“I was considering it,” Ori says, looking up at Fíli over his shoulder. “I would have missed you, though.” 

Fíli kisses Ori right there, in front of them all, and Bilbo is very aware of how he's the only one who cares. Dwarves do not say much, not about personal things, but they show their love easily. 

Thorin had always been so sure of his welcome, his hand finding the small of Bilbo's back, or between his shoulder blades, or the back of his neck, in front of anyone and everyone. His words had been easy too, where a Hobbit tongue would have faltered; _You are my light, my treasure_. 

_I thought I was a craft-dwarf. I thought I could not love like this,_ he had kissed Bilbo's curls, pulled him in tight. _Oh, my treasure, my heart was just waiting for you._

“And you, Bilbo? Have you had children?” It's Kíli who asks, his judgement too clear in his voice. 

“No,” Bilbo answers, shaking his head. “No, I'm quite committed to being a bachelor.”

There's satisfaction in Fíli and Kíli's faces, and unfortunately, Bilbo cannot blame them. Thorin had loved him. Despite everything that had passed in Thorin's madness, Thorin had _loved_ Bilbo. 

And Dwarves only love once. 

“It would be a lie, otherwise,” he says. He is not a Dwarf, true. But he had never loved before Thorin, and the idea of loving anyone else as he loved Thorin is simply unbearable. Once was enough for a lifetime. “But I have many cousins at home, and can take great joy in spoiling their children. My cousins Drogo and Primula just had a son, actually, Frodo.” 

“There did seem to be an awful lot of children about the place,” Kíli says, making a face at Fíli and Ori. “Can you imagine more of them?” 

“Spare us that nightmare,” Balin says, right as a servant walks by with a tray full of glasses. Honestly, Bilbo is grateful for the wine. He doesn't know why he thought this would be anything less than excruciating. He was so eager to see Erebor again, to see the Company, so eager to be somewhere Thorin had been, somewhere Thorin had loved. Somehow, he had thought he would be able to feel Thorin again. 

But he looks at Fíli, a true king, with his spouse and his children, and Kíli, with his own growing family, and he looks around at Erebor, prosperous and beautiful.

And he feels the same way he does in Bag End's lonely rooms. Thorin does not linger here either.


	2. Chapter 2

Leaning over the balcony, Bilbo can watch the whole Court interact. He can even hear some of it, the wide, tall bringing their voices up to him. So far, it doesn't seem much different from a gathering at the Great Smials of his family. Lots of polite smiling, gossiping about one another, and children staring at their own feet in utter boredom. 

Suddenly, like two tadpoles darting through a pond, the twins appear, cackling madly as they race through the crowd. Most telling is how little the ripples they make are, people moving aside for them as though it's an everyday sort of thing. A Dwarf already mostly grey, presumably their nurse, comes tearing after them not long after, but the boys have already reached the front of the room, where their family is. Both throw themselves at Kíli, the Prince picking them both up around the waist and giving them a shake while Fíli laughs from his seat. Bilbo cannot see it, but he's rather sure Ori is rolling his eyes. 

“Wee little terrors, aren't they?” a voice asks, and to Bilbo's surprise, it's Bofur. Older, but still his once-friend. He grins at Bilbo, reaching up to touch the grey in Bilbo's own hair with a raised eyebrow. “What's this then? They already turned your hair grey? You'll be an old man by the time you leave.” 

“Oh, I don't doubt those two will have everyone's hair grey by the time they're adults,” Bilbo says, rocking back on his heels. “It doesn't seem as though anyone minds much, in their case.” 

Bofur shrugs, looking down at them himself. One of the boys has clambered up Kíli's shoulders, while Kíli drops the other in Fíli's lap. Both children seem content where they end up. “Well, they are the beloved children of our Lion King. And twins beside. I've only ever known one other pair of Dwarf twins in my life, and my brother has eleven children now. Favouring Fíli's side so much, looking so much like Thorin as well, and well, they've got free licence to run wild wherever they like by most of Erebor's reckoning.” He hitches his chin, seeming to indicate Dírin standing beside Fíli and Kíli. “I will say, I'm glad Dírin is the heir. He's a good, steady lad.” 

Dírin glances up and around, but if he notices Bilbo and Bofur, he gives no indication. “How old is he?” This is the question Bilbo's been mulling over in his mind since his arrival, but he knew without being told that asking any of them was a mistake. “Dírin?”

“Twenty-nine, just a fortnight ago.” That makes no sense. It would mean he was conceived very soon after the reclamation, but that's impossible. “The anniversary of the marriage will be in spring, if that tells you anything,” Bofur adds, the look he's giving Bilbo letting him know he's having the same thoughts. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I realized who exactly got Ori in trouble.”

“Ori called him a preening prat once, and other names besides,” Bilbo says, trying to understand. “They seem happy, but...so soon after the reclamation?” 

“Couldn't tell you what changed,” Bofur replies evenly, shaking his head. “Ori never told me. He and Fíli did have a lot of late nights, but it was just work, or so I thought. Suppose they were working at something.” It's a bit crude, but Bilbo's a bit less than proper these days any way. He chuckles, and accepts a puff of Bofur's pipe. “I tell you, I thought Nori was going to cut my beard off when he finally showed his face around here again. Asked me to look after the lad, and what does he come home to? A little brother with a bairn half-carved in his belly, and a bolting marriage. Tried to wring my neck, he did.”

Bilbo takes a long puff, enjoying the pipeweed. It's not Old Toby, but it's pleasant. “Bolting marriage?”

His old friend laughs. “Means the wedding comes after the baby is showing.” Now Bilbo laughs too, and honestly, it's the easiest conversation he's had since he arrived. “Not that our people mind that sort of thing. Usually it's the grandparents wanting to be sure the new babe is in the right line, or has the proper amount of care.” 

“We have those in the Shire too,” Bilbo says. He's been to one or two weddings like it himself. “Where was Nori?”

Now Bofur isn't laughing. He takes his pipe back, and puffs quietly for a few moments, as below them, Ori stands, the twins immediately swarming him. He and the nurse take the boys by the hands and start to lead them away, presumably back to their nursery or schoolroom. “Without Dori to keep him steady, Nori...he's never been the best at sticking around, Nori. He couldn't...Ori needed Dori, and so did Nori, and Nori couldn't be Dori. He lasted maybe a fortnight before he up and left. Asked me to keep an eye on Ori. Broke the lad's heart, but then, he was used to Nori leaving by then. Been doing it his whole life, after all. Ended up practically living in that great big 'Ri house with him for a time.” 

“How could he just leave him?” Bilbo asks, his heart clenching for the lad. “With Dori gone...”

“Dori had always taken care of them. Their mum, she was a sweet old lady, she had uh, how do I say this in Common...ash lung? From the dragon. She kept Dori's mouth covered when she was getting out, but not her own. Happened to a lot of parents, protecting their children first. In any case, it left her real sick, and she was a bit older by the time Ori was born. Dori was always fussing over the pair of them, long as I've known that family.” He bites the end of his pipe, his eyes still down on the throne, though on who specifically, Bilbo can't say. “Funny thing, Nori always used to tease that I'd end up married to Ori. Lad had always had a bit of a shine for me.” 

There's something very fond in his voice. It's almost jealous, but Bilbo won't examine that too closely. It's neither here nor there, after all. “You haven't found yourself a spouse, made children?” He believes he already knows the answer. Bofur seems to believe he does as well.

“What would the point have been?” His eyes are on Dírin, Bilbo realizes. 

“I didn't know,” he says, hoping the understanding conveys. Bilbo doesn't believe it's any easier having the one you love alive and well, but happily married to someone else, than not having them at all. “I'm sorry.”

“I didn't either, until I missed my chance,” Bofur replies, blowing a smoke ring. “He looks like Fíli, but there's so much of Ori in him. Fíli was never so awkward at that age, and never so happy on his own. Long as Dírin has a book, or Taurís, he's content. Ori was the same. I used to bring him paper and pencils for his blessing-days. Always looked at me like I'd hung the moon, even after he wasn't a wee thing any more.”

They enjoy the quiet for a few minutes together, as they used to a long time ago, when they would split a pipe and what precious pipeweed they had before bedding down. Bilbo closes his eyes, and the sounds fade away for a moment, the smell taking him back to cold nights, and the fire, and Thorin, sharpening his sword beside Bilbo. He can almost feel Thorin's heavy coat brushing against his own jacket, can smell the musty fur and the oil for the weapons. 

He opens his eyes, and the memory is again faded by time. Sometimes, he cannot see Thorin's face clearly, and that is perhaps what makes his chest ache so awfully now, that in this place, he can. He can see Thorin again, can see the sharpness of his nose, the blue of his eyes, the grey streaks in his black hair. He can feel it twining in his fingers. 

“How the time has passed,” Bilbo says aloud, rubbing at his chest as though that will ease the pain there. “Is Nori here now?”

“No, he uh...” Bofur seems to need a moment to come back to himself, so Bilbo doesn't rush him. “He and Ori fell out when Nori came back and found out. He managed to time it so he came back two days before the wedding, because Nori has always had the most spectacular timing, and he did everything but kidnap Ori to stop it from going through.”

“But Ori was in love with Fíli,” Bilbo finishes, believing he's found the end of it. 

Bofur shakes his head. “No, he wasn't. Nor was Fíli in love with him.”

Below them, Ori comes back into the room, people moving aside for him until he's again at the dais the royal family sits on. As he approaches, Fíli rises, a hand going to the small of Ori's back as he helps him up the steps to his seat. 

“And now?” 

“I believe Ori married him because Fíli was offering him what he really wanted: a family. And Fíli was so young, I think he needed someone at his back. They weren't in love, but they needed one another.” He blows a series of smoke rings, and passes the pipe back to Bilbo. “But yes, love did grow between them.” 

Bilbo sees Fíli duck down, kiss Ori perhaps, or whisper something private to him. He stands straight and tall again, turning towards Kíli to say something, his long blond hair catching all the light in the room, and with the circlet on his head, and the surcoat, the blue, fur lined surcoat, oh, he is everything Thorin ever wanted him to be. 

Dírin comes to Fíli's side, creeping almost, until he's just a hand's width from him. As Bilbo watches, Fíli notices him, and reaches out, welcoming his son against him, pulling him in close. 

He never knew Fíli young, but he can so easily see how this scene must have played out a dozen times when Fíli was a child, coming to Thorin's side, unsure of his uncle-king, unsure of his own place. And how Thorin must have sensed him, must have turned and reached out for him, pulling him in. 

“How lucky they are,” Bilbo says aloud, his throat tight. “Erebor is beautiful, and Durin's Line is stronger than ever. As Balin said, it is not so easily broken.” 

“Yes,” Bofur replies, looking at nothing at all. “We are all very lucky. Erebor has been taken back, and our people have a strong king that Mahal smiles on. An heir within a year, and then twins, and now another, maybe even a girl. Truly, this is...this is what we wanted.” 

“Is it?” Bag End echoes with its own emptiness, and nothing helps. Bilbo finds himself in his garden more often than not, smoking his pipe or tending his plants. Watching the birds and the insects and the clouds, making shapes from them. His fellow Hobbits have begun to call him Mad Baggins, but all the fauntlings crowd around his gate at tea, asking for stories of Dwarves and Elves and dragons and trolls. They're all content to hear the same stories again and again, with new details, things Bilbo forgets then remembers again. 

Now he shall have new stories of this journey, of Erebor, enough to keep them entertained for a thousand teas to come. Perhaps he can get a few more of those apple scones out of Tansy Brandybuck's mother if he keeps her out of her mother's hair for a few extra hours. 

They're messy and loud and they tend to filch strawberries, but they help the day go by, and Bilbo enjoys the noise more than he ever thought he would. And yet, it is not what Bilbo wanted. “It hardly feels like thirty years,” he says. Not when he wakes in the night still, imagining a deep voice in his ear telling him it was time to pack up the camp. “How many years do you think it will take before it does?”

“As many years as it takes you to let him go, Bilbo,” Bofur replies knowingly. 

“I thought Dwarves only loved once,” he says, attempting to tease. 

“Aye, but you are not a Dwarf.”

“No, I am a Hobbit,” Bilbo agrees, taking the offered pipe. Thorin's mouth always tasted of this pipeweed, of smoke and ash. “But I was loved by a Dwarf-king, one of the greatest to ever live. I understand why Dwarves only love once. To have that twice would tear you to shreds.”

Bofur sighs, and takes the pipe back. “Likely.”

♦

Ori hums to himself, his pen poised over the letter he's sending back with Thorin Stonehelm. Lord Dáin had wanted more accurate numbers on the forces Erebor could contribute to the new military outposts, and the state of their armoury. More than that, Fíli's nosey cousin wants to know how the children are getting on.

Across from him on the terrace, Thorin Stonehelm is being soundly beaten by Ori's twins. Dorin and Torin are going to be a force to be reckoned with when they're older, but for now, their strategy is that Torin takes the top and Dorin takes the bottom. They haven't quite worked out their battle cries yet, but Thorin has made some very nice suggestions that Ori will have to break them of later, he's sure. 

“What are you doing, Da?” Dírin has decided to join him, sitting down beside Ori, as close as he dares. “Paperwork?”

“Aren't you supposed to be with your teacher?” Ori asks, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Nah,” he answers, peering at Ori's work. “Lessons got cancelled, on account of Teacher having a headache.” 

“Would you and your cousin be the cause of that headache?” 

His son shrugs. “I don't think so, not this time.” 

“Why don't you go play with your brothers and your cousin then?” Ori suggests, pausing over a word. 

“I'll sit here real quiet, I promise,” Dírin insists, and Ori is ready to order him to go occupy himself, but then he looks down and sees the way his son his watching his own feet, shoulders slumped. 

Ori hands him some paper and a pencil. “Draw me a picture then, love.”

“Can I draw anything?” 

“Anything you like,” Ori agrees, going back to his work. He's supposed to be working on his script and his maths, but he likes to draw and Ori doesn't see why he shouldn't be indulged. He's the Crown Prince after all, and he'll not have much more indulging when he gets older. “Where's Taurís?”

“His mum is back,” Dírin says, concentrating on his paper. His lines are good, but he's still working out forms. “They went shooting. I wanted to come see you though. I thought the twins would be at their lessons.”

“No, I let them stay and play with Thorin. He's got them so worked up, they couldn't possibly sit for them.” Dírin is frowning at his paper, so Ori adds, “I think your Adad is going to manage to get some time to come down and take midday with us. You should ask him to spar.” Dírin shrugs, so Ori places a hand on his head, stroking his hair. “My love, I have to finish this, but once I'm done, I'll fix this mess you've made of your hair. You're just like your Adad, I swear.” 

That seems to cheer his boy up, shading with more enthusiasm. When Fíli does join them, Dírin looks much lighter altogether, especially when the twins don't notice Fíli, which means Dírin gets Fíli all to himself for a few minutes. Seeing Dírin in Fíli's arms never fails to cause a rush in Ori's stomach, especially now in the bright mountain sunshine. 

Once he puts Dírin down, Fíli sits beside Ori, pulling him in for a kiss by the back of his neck. “Hello,” Ori greets him happily, kissing him again. “Did you finish everything for the morning?”

“Yes, and no one is dead, so it was a big success,” Fíli replies, ducking down to nuzzle Ori's cheek. “You're warm. You've been sitting out here for awhile, haven't you?” 

“It's a bit stifling inside, all those people,” Ori says, just as Thorin shouts: “First one to catch me gets a battleaxe, a _real_ battleaxe!”

Even Dírin chases after him, the allure of a real weapon more than either of their parents. 

“I didn't even get a 'hello' from the monsters,” Fíli muses, unoffended. “Oh, and look, we're all alone. Fancy that.” 

“Hmm, this doesn't seem like a set-up at all.” They've both been so busy that even a few stolen kisses has been too much to ask for as of late, so a few minutes alone out here, before they're both too exhausted by the day's work, is nice. “What are you up to?” He cups Fíli's face, and pulls him closer. “You can't put another in me before this one is out, just so you know.” 

“We should stay in practice though,” Fíli cajoles, pulling Ori in closer. 

They only get a quarter of an hour before Thorin returns, covered in children and laughing. 

“Here now, you know what that leads to,” Thorin teases, shaking Dorin and Torin off. The twins are no sooner on the ground then they're between Ori and Fíli, Dorin picking Fíli, Torin, Ori. It leaves Dírin with Thorin, who is all too eager to hand off one of his battleaxes, Dírin hardly able to lift it. 

“Careful there,” Fíli cautions, putting Dorin down beside Ori and Torin so he can assist, helping Dírin raise it. “Like this, see, it's not like a sword, so you don't hold it like one.”

“All right.” Dírin raises it a bit better with Fíli and Thorin's help, Thorin crouching down so he's closer to Dírin's eye level. “Can I really have it?” 

“Of course,” Thorin agrees cheerily. “As long as your parents say so.” 

When Dírin glances at him, Ori nods approvingly, one arm wrapped around Torin, the other around Dorin, the pair of them starting to droop against Ori. It'll be time for a nap soon, he thinks, for all three of them. For now though, he watches his eldest, as his usually serious face breaks out in a wide smile, and he makes his first swing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up not liking the first version after I re-read it. Posted too late/early, I think.

“Queen Uzma Glassaxe, of the Red Stone,” Dírin recites, dogging Fíli's footsteps. “Her Consort is General Isra Nightbird, of the Red Stone.” 

“And what battle are they both renowned for?” Fíli asks patiently, keeping his steps slow for his contemplative son. 

“The Battle of the Dead Water,” Dírin replies, looking up at Fíli with a frown. He's sure, but Fíli can see the doubt in his face. 

He smiles assuringly for him. “Very good, my lad. And what is that dead water?” 

“The Salt Lakes,” Dírin replies, obviously mulling it over first. “The water cannot be drunk, and there are no fish.” His frown deepens, and he looks up at Fíli. “Is it true the sun is so bright there that the Dwarves have black eyes, so it won't hurt them?”

“No, my cub,” Fíli laughs, pulling his son against his side. “The Dwarves of the Red Stone wear Kohl around their eyes, to keep the sun from blinding them. Kohl is...soft black stone, like a pencil.” His son still frowns, so Fíli elaborates. “Do you remember the sailors who came to Dale?” His son nods. “Do you remember how smudgy their eyes were?”

“Yes.”

“That was Kohl, around their eyes. Sailors use it so much and for so long, sometimes it stains their skin, or they get it tattooed in, so the sun shining on the water won't bother them. And Queen Uzma and General Isra have tattoos on their faces, as well.” That sparks more of Dírin's interest. The lad is fascinated by Fíli and Ori's tattoos, always asking what they mean, how they hurt, how they were done. Ori thinks the boy might be an inkist, and Fíli is hopeful for it. No Dwarf is higher in trade than the one trusted to etch battles and family and wishes into another's skin. Fíli is not sure he should ask Mahal for yet one more blessing, but he hopes it's true of his boy. 

_His_ boy. His cub, his golden-haired heir, with his bright eyes and sceptical mind. Fíli can hardly believe such a bright creature is his, and yet, he looks at Dírin and sees himself as a lad. More telling, so does Dís. The twins, his beautiful twins, are bright, happy little devils, but he can admit that he and his mother favour Dírin.

Fíli does not deny that perhaps he favours Dírin because the lad looks like him, but is Ori in mind. A blend of the pair of them, born so close to Durin's Day, made in grief, born from love. His hope, his light, in his worst moment. 

He kisses his son's temple, tugging him in close, and gets a smile in return. “Adad,” he says, and Fíli's smile grows. So often, he is 'Father', and so rarely just 'Adad' any more. He worries he's too distant, too busy with politics, that Dírin feels ignored by him. Ori assures him it's not true, but Fíli can't help doubting himself when it comes to their children. “Would you teach me how to use the battleaxe Cousin Thorin gave me?” Dírin asks, and that makes Fíli very happy. Dírin loves books, and too often, Fíli feels like he can't offer his son anything. Weapons though, he knows weapons.

“No, my lad, I will let you swing that thing around like an idiot,” Fíli drawls, squeezing his son's shoulders, grinning. “Of course, Dírin. Your cousin Gimli is more experienced though, so if you like it, we can ask him to come give you lessons. Would you like that?” Dírin nods, not pulling away just yet. “Your braids are a mess, who did them? Not your Da?” Fíli teases.

“He didn't do yours either,” Dírin replies pointedly, his voice muffled by Fíli's furs. Fíli laughs, pulling him along as they walk down the hall, his son coming along with him, smiling. He does love when he can make his children smile.

“I'll own that. I rose before your Da, just like I did when you were in his belly, and the twins.” Ori is usually an early riser like Fíli, unless he's carrying. Then, he might sleep all day. His son seems interested in that, so Fíli adds, “You know, when you were in your Da, I could feel you under my hand. You would turn, but stay so still after, I worried you weren't there at all. Yet you were, just as you are now, even when you're quiet.” There are no words for the absolutely overwhelming fear he'd felt every time Dírin had stilled under his hand, or when he moved, or did anything at all. He'd been so afraid the whole time that Mahal would change his mind, would snuff out Dírin's flame, or worse, take Ori and him both. 

Even now, if he thinks about this new baby too much, the fear comes back.

His son is quiet, as he always is, thinking about something, maybe not anything related to what Fíli has said. Dírin is so smart, so far beyond Fíli at times. He's surprised though, when his son asks, “Were you and Da married by then?”

That's not a question he should be worrying about. “Dírin -”

“Everyone talks about it, you know,” Dírin says, cutting him off. “How you and Da got married because of me. Well, everyone's talking about it now. 'Cause it was my birthday and now they're all here.” He shrugs against Fíli, meaning he's done with affection, so the king lets him go off on his own. “Master Bofur says they're just talking, but, you know....they're talking about me.”

Fíli's jaw tightens at the mention of Bofur. He was never close to the toymaker on the journey, but their relationship had turned cold before Dírin was born. He saw the way Bofur looked at Ori then, and the way he looks at Fíli's husband now. Ori loves Fíli, he knows it, but something darkly possessive in him hates that Bofur even dares to love Ori. That's not wrong, that's not even Bofur's fault, because Fíli loves Ori too, he knows why Bofur does, but....

But down that road lies acknowledging all his flaws, all the ways Bofur could be a better spouse, and he just can't do that to himself right now.

“You're the Crown Prince, Dírin. They're always going to find something to talk about.” He clasps his hands behind his back, following Dírin now. As much time as he and Taurís spend running about, his son has a rather fast pace. Fíli is used to keeping a more measured one, so he and whoever he's walking with might speak easily. “Better they talk about something you had nothing to do with. We were married by the time you were born, and that's all that matters.” At least it should be. Ori chose to marry him, chose hope, and Fíli has to believe that's enough.

Dírin is not an easily swayed child. It'll be a good trait when he's older, but right now it just tends to be aggravating. Once he has a rock in his hand, he won't stop 'til it's polished to a shine, and that worries Fíli. He used to do that too, and often over-thought things until they drove him mad. “Is that why Da's brother hates me?”

It's an incredibly astute question, one he should have expected of this conversation. His son, hah, who is he fooling. This is Ori's son, smart, too smart, and liable to hurt himself with it. “You're a child, Dírin. Even Nori can't hate you. Though I wouldn't depend on that once you have a full beard. Nori's a spiteful old crow.” Fíli won't lie, if only because Dírin wouldn't believe it. He wants Fíli to tell him the truth.

Nori's never been cruel during his visits, honestly, but he's also never shown any interest in the children whatsoever, and though the twins have always been too young to care, it's hurt Dírin's feelings. Ori has told him, once or twice, in the dark safety of their bedroom, that he thinks Nori is terrified of loving again. Of becoming attached to the boys, to this coming child, and then losing them as the brothers lost Dori. Fíli can understand that, but he hates how it hurts Ori, hurts their son.

Dírin runs his fingers along the stone wall as they walk, not looking at Fíli. “Da's sad when he visits.” 

Fíli would argue, but his son always sees through lies, especially Fíli's lies, without exception, so Fíli never tries any more. “Your Da and his brothers were just...their mother, your other grandmother, was older than my mother, and her lungs were bad. So the three of them took care of each other. Your Da misses your other uncle so much, and your Uncle Nori reminds him of how much it hurts.” And Ori has confessed that too, that the sight of Nori sometimes hurt. Fíli had not blamed him, merely held him and let him talk, hardly able to get the words past his own throat about how sometimes his mother reminded him too much of his uncle once Ori had talked himself out.

“No,” Dírin surprisingly disagrees, shaking his head. “Last time he came, he told Da marrying you and having me was a mistake. Da shouted at him, and then Da started crying.” Fíli finds himself frozen, as his son turns, and looks up at him with fear in his face. “I wasn't supposed to tell you, but I know he's coming, and he's going to be nasty again. Da lets him talk to him like that, but you won't let him, will you?” 

Honestly, right now he's likely to kill Nori as to look at him. How _dare_ he say anything like that to Ori, after how he had abandoned Ori, left him alone to grieve? How dare he had any right to pass judgement, to hurt Ori? Ori made a life of his own, chose Fíli and proved himself a hundred times over as the Consort of Erebor, but Nori still thinks he has the right to judge?

That's not the side of himself Dírin needs to see though. Not yet. Dírin understands what a king is in only the barest sense, and Fíli is, for now, just Father or Adad to him. He's not yet ready for Dírin to see how deep his anger can run, especially when his children are involved. He needs to still be untouched and easily-loved, because once Dírin knows, that love won't be so easy. He might not even love Fíli at all, one day.

One day, he'll know the truth, and there's nothing Fíli can do to stop that. He'll hear the story of Lord Albin, the noble who had questioned Ori's claim, before Dírin was born, before everyone saw Fíli's little lion. The one who stood before Fíli and called his new husband a lying Ri, called Fíli a fool still ensnared by the treasure. 

He'll hear how Fíli took the precious mithril chain from Ori's own swollen belly, pressed his palm against his half-carved son, and looked down at Ori, asking for approval. He'll hear how Ori looked at that lord with something cold in his eyes, something that was never there before the Battle, before Dírin was there within him. Looked at that lord, that snivelling coward threatening his babe, and then up at Fíli with hard confirmation. 

Some day, he'll hear how his beloved Adad, the Dwarf who has lifted him up and swung him around countless times, taught him how to wield a sword, teaching him to be a king, had ordered that lord strangled with the chain that had marked Ori as bearing, as beloved and fragile, in front of the whole Court, so they all knew that Fíli would never allow another word said against his child or his husband.

And then he'll know that Erebor's reclamation was not as noble as everyone likes to say now. He'll know what the world is. And he'll look at Fíli and Ori differently.

Now though, Dírin knows his Adad can fix anything, anything at all, and Fíli likes being that person to his beloved son. “Dírin, sometimes adults say things they don't mean. Like when you say you hate your brothers. We get angry and try to hurt one another by saying deliberately hurtful things. Nori meant harm when he said that, but I'm sure he regretted it. Ori's his little brother and he loves him. He would never hurt him, not really.” Honestly, he believes Nori probably did regret it after the heat of anger had passed. Nori never liked hurting his brothers, not like how he seemed to take vicious pleasure in his little barbs at the rest of them. 

No, his brothers had been off limits. Fíli supposes it was something like good fortune that he and Ori had rather disliked one another then. If Nori had caught a whiff of impropriety, Fíli could just bet he wouldn't have lived to see another morning. As it stood, Nori had been completely disinterested in Fíli and his brother the whole journey. He'd been following Thorin, and really, Fíli hadn't been surprised when Nori had decided to keep his nomadic status, leaving Erebor altogether. Who with a working brain would pledge themselves to a fledgling king with a hot head and no sense? Fíli wouldn't have.

He had been surprised when Nori had left Ori behind.

Surprised, but grateful. Not at first, not when nothing had made Fíli happy, when nothing could drag him from his grief and anger, but later. Later, when he had seen what he had overlooked for so long. It had been Ori that had sat up with Fíli, night after night, helping him understand the laws and the oaths and the politics, transcribing for him, while Balin remained in the place between living and dead. It had been Ori that listened as Fíli ranted about Thorin and Dís and everyone's _expectations_ , and how he couldn't do it, he couldn't be the damned king. Thorin was king. Thorin should have been king. 

And it had been Ori who had looked up at him over his papers and said, _“You don't have a choice, so best accept it now.”_ His voice had not shook with false bravado, like it always had before. Ori could not wear white, because there was no white to wear, but he had taken to binding some mountain flower, white, in his braids. Where he found flowers in this place, Fíli had not known. 

_“You're not the only one who lost a parent, Fíli, so stop acting like you're the only one hurting! You stupid, awful boy, you act like you're the only one dealing with more than they know how! Just stop, by the Valar, I hate you, you're still the arrogant idiot you've always been -!”_

_“Then why are you here?!”_

_“Because Dori wanted Erebor, and I won't let it fall now! So stop being so stupid and -”_

And Ori had started to cry and Fíli had...reached out, touched him, where he never had before. Trying to offer comfort to the person who had kept him sane over the long nights, the only person who would shout at him when he so badly needed it.

And that night, that mistake, or rather, what they had both thought was a mistake, that night resulted in this boy in front of him. Sometimes, Fíli wonders at their Maker, what he saw in Fíli and Ori that told him a child should be forged that night. Mostly, he is _grateful_. Ori had propped him up when Kíli was lost to his own grief and wounds, when Balin still walked with a cane, when his mother was still a world away. Ori had been his partner, and later, later he held his son in his arms and realized Ori was his love as well. And when Ori needed security, Fíli had done his best to give it, to give whatever Ori asked, whatever he wanted. He'd felt inadequate in turn, but he'd tried. 

His son, his first-born, tucks a loose braid behind his ear. “I guess. But he still made Da cry.” There's a good deal of anger there. Maybe he is Fíli's son.

“I've made your Da cry more than once.” Distracting himself from the past, Fíli reminds Dírin of this dryly. Especially when Ori had been bearing the twins. For Dírin and this one, he's mostly just been his usual self, but for the twins, the slightest thing had made him cry. Fíli had been walking on eggshells by the end of that one, scared to upset him at all, that he might make Ori feel bad. Now he worries that someone is making Dírin feel bad. “Dírin, my boy, don't listen to that nonsense. You are the Crown Prince of Erebor, and your Da and I love one another. Nothing about either of those things will ever change.” It's what he has to offer, the truth, and he hopes it's good enough.

It is, really. Dwarves only love once, and he and Ori are no exception. Fíli's heart had been given away, piece by piece, with him hardly noticing, until he held Dírin, sitting on the bed beside Ori, exhausted, the stitches in his belly still fresh and covered by Óin's poultices. Then, he had realized the empty place in his chest, only to realize it was not empty at all, as Ori looked up at him holding their child. That just as Ori now carried Fíli's love, Fíli's carried Ori's.

“More importantly, your Da and I love you,” Fíli reminds him, reaching out to stroke his son's hair. “Don't ever forget that.” 

They had killed for him, after all. They had married for him. They had fallen in love, because of him. Dírin had been the only good in their lives, the little family they had made with him, for a long time.

His son is not perfect, Fíli is not that foolish. But Fíli could never not love him.

Dírin seems more at ease, as he follows Fíli now, keeping pace with him. They pass visiting nobles, and Fíli thinks to start quizzing him again, but it might be thought rude if one of the nobles overhears. He's had Ori, Balin, and Dís beating manners into his skull since the day the crown was put on his head, and he's not sure, but since he thinks Ori would probably disapprove, it's probably rude. Instead, he lets his son walk beside him, telling Fíli about his lessons and what he and Taurís have been up to. Fíli can get away with half-listening to the lessons, and only giving small hints about what else he and his cousin can do, things that can't easily be traced back to him. No one likes when he and Kíli contribute to Dírin and Taurís' mischief.

Just because Ori is already carrying their fourth child doesn't mean Fíli doesn't enjoy staying in practice. Ori and him have many methods of punishing one another when they're unhappy, mostly shouting, but Ori doesn't like to be touched when he's angry. It's why Fíli usually apologises first. He hates being alone at night, is sometimes even frightened. If Ori knew, he would never deny Fíli his touch, but Fíli won't deny him his preferences. In any case, if he knows Fíli has been giving Dírin ideas, he'll get frustrated.

They pass King's Hall, the statues of the Dwarf kings of the past standing straight, their chosen weapons in hand as they stand forever on guard in their alcoves. Fíli finds himself stopping in front of Thorin, as he always does. Like his father and grandfather, kings Fíli never knew, his statue is new, but unlike them, his is more detailed, more real. Fíli had been specific to the artists, down to the ring his uncle had worn in the lock of hair behind his shoulder, though on the statue it could hardly be seen. He stands as stone now, his oak branch shield on his arm, his sword pointed down to the earth. Tall and strong and stone, unseeing, unknowing.

Dírin looks up at him, the king that's probably just as much as stranger to him as Thror and Thrain are to Fíli. “Adad?” 

“Yes?”

“People are saying things about Master Baggins too.” Now there's the scepticism he's more accustomed to in his son's face. He looks downright suspicious, in fact, good lad. He should always be suspicious about the things people say in court. “About him and King Thorin.” 

Fíli rolls his eyes, then glares up at his uncle's stone face, silently cursing him and hoping he hears it in Durin's Hall. “Dwarves only love once, my lad, and sometimes we do not choose well. My uncle made that mistake.” 

“So King Thorin _did_ love him?” 

“He did,” Fíli confirms, sorry to do it. “And Master Baggins betrayed him.” 

His son frowns. “That's not what Da says,” he points out. 

Fíli swallows painfully, aware he's said something incredibly stupid. “It's different, Dírin, with him” Fíli replies, and walks on. “Just...I'm sorry, my lad. That was wrong of me.” Better to just say it and get it done with. Dírin should learn that from him and Ori both, how to admit he's wrong. “I can't be like your Da, in this, is all.” He could forgive Thorin anything

It's not so easy with Bilbo.

Dírin shrugs, oblivious to his father's turmoil. “Master Bofur says it's just talking. But it's not nice talking.”

“How much time have you been spending with Master Bofur?” Fíli asks, tired of the name. 

“He had midday with us yesterday, and then he and Da talked for a bit while me and Taurís played outside. He brought a new set of soldiers for me and Taurís.”

Fíli works around his anger and the entirely baseless jealousy. Bofur is Ori's friend, and he knows it. He does. This is absolutely idiotic on his part. “What happened to the set you just got?” 

“The twins lost half the pieces.” Of course. They don't yet understand the game, but they always want to do what their older brother and cousin are doing. It's led to more than one ruined toy of Dírin's, and why he was allowed to move out of the nursery and into a room of his own. “They're not supposed to be in my room.”

“No, they're not, and they'll be punished for it.” The twins are headstrong and borderline feral sometimes, but nothing turns them into weeping, apologetic children faster than Fíli's disapproval. Dírin's heart is broken when Ori is cross with him, but the twins are all Fíli's.

He and Kíli had been that way about Thorin. His disapproval would have them in pieces. 

“Auntie,” his son says, and Fíli looks over in the same direction, spotting Tauriel amongst the visiting Elves, the only redhead, and the only one with geometric designs in her leathers. When she sees Dírin, she smiles wide, and holds out an arm to him. With an approving touch from Fíli on his shoulder, Dírin dashes forward to her side, staring up at the Elves somewhat wide-eyed. Fíli forgets that his son has never seen so many people with hair like his before. It must be interesting. It had been for Fíli, especially amongst his dark-haired family.

One of the Elves, equally as tall and fair as his companions, asks, “And who is this?”

“His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Dírin,” Tauriel answers, smiling with familial pride. Her lad and Dírin have always been close, and she's always loved Dírin. Fíli's grateful for that, especially after the twins were born and took up so much time. His eldest needs attention and affection he can't always give, so Tauriel has been yet one more stroke of good luck for his family. She's been a strong, intelligent leader where he didn't know how to be, and a friend when he needed one. “And this is his father, His Majesty, King Fíli.” 

Fíli nods in acknowledgement, as the Elves bow in respect. They might not like bowing to a Dwarf king, but they'd like it even less if they were seen as anything less than the pinnacle of perfect manners. “Your Majesty,” one murmurs in a way he probably thinks conveys grace and refinement. Mostly, it makes him hard to hear in the full Hall.

If he rolls his eyes, his mother will know. And she will smack him, king or not. It had never stopped her when it came to Thorin. 

“And how old are you?” one asks Dírin. As with all Elves, most of their attention is taken by Dírin. Their people are fascinated by children, not that Fíli's above manipulating it. Sometimes he can't make the Elves happy, but his children can usually charm better moods where he fails. They're fascinated by the tall, thin strangers, and Fíli is happy to see them learn, see them understand.

“Twenty-nine,” Dírin answers, touching his own braids. “I just turned.” 

“Oh, but you are a young thing, aren't you?” the same Elf asks, kneeling so she's closer to his eye level. “And look at your hair! Just like your father's.” Fíli meets Tauriel's eyes, the pair of them deeply amused. She herself knows how little Elves care for Dwarves' appearances, but for children, they'll make exceptions. 

“Yes,” Dírin answers, looking up at Fíli briefly, looking for the security of his father. Fíli smiles, hoping it comes across. “My brothers have black hair. Da wants the baby to be like me.” 

“Another?” There's a quiet ripple in the group, and one looks at Fíli. “How many children do you have, Your Majesty?”

“Three,” Fíli says with pride. “Dírin is the eldest, and then his younger brothers are a set. The next will show themselves near the Solstice.” He's hoping for a girl, despite himself. His mother loves her grandsons, but she needs a granddaughter to pass the ways down to. Tauriel might yet have another child, but there's no guarantee of that. Taurís had a been a surprise to begin with. “Speaking of your brothers, where are they?” He'd thought they'd be here with their nurse and Ori, but there's no sign of any of them. It's too quiet, for one.

Dírin shrugs, more interested in his aunt and the attentive strangers. “Maybe they're having lessons?” 

“Maybe,” Fíli says, as Taurís joins them, leaving Kíli's side. His brother is deep in discussion with several guild heads closer to the throne, and it must have bored Taurís. It bores Fíli, and he's disappointed when his brother summons him over. “Tauriel, would you keep an eye on Dírin?” 

“Of course,” she says, reaching out to stroke her son's dark head affectionately. “Perhaps the boys and I could go shooting.” 

“Really?” Dírin asks, excited. Taurís looking up at her just as hopefully. Briefly, Dírin looks at Fíli, Fíli nodding. Dírin loves being allowed out with Tauriel and Taurís, and it'll give him some fun in all this.

“Oh, are you archers?” an Elf asks eagerly, and Fíli leaves them to it. 

He makes his way over to his brother and the guild heads, trying not to grimace. Today was supposed to be an opportunity for him and Ori to have a little more time together, maybe to sit and talk, but as usual, their children interfered, the twins demanding immediate attention from Ori, leaving Fíli to take Dírin for his own lessons. And now Kíli apparently needs him.

He enjoys spending time with his son, but he misses Ori. All of this mess has disrupted their usual routine, and he feels as though he's missing time with his family, and not just his husband and children. He and Kíli haven't been able to go out hunting in weeks, and he's hardly seen his mother at all.

“Your Majesty,” they greet, overlapping one another. Kíli claps him on the shoulder, and the look he gives Fíli tells him this is going to be about as awful as it usually is.

♦

It's long past nightfall by the time he comes back to his and Ori's rooms. The halls of the family apartments are quiet, the children in bed hours ago. He had promised to take the evening meal with them, but the discussions with the guild heads had turned into a full-blown meeting, followed by another meeting with Thorin Stonehelm and his advisers on the subject of which regiments would be deployed to the new posts. Thorin wants more archers, but Fíli is loathe to part with more of his own, and Thorin doesn't have any more to spare either.

He passes an attendant on his way in, so he stops her. “What mood is he in?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I would tread lightly, sir.” Fíli groans, and she pats his arm sympathetically. She does make her exit quickly though. 

“Traitor,” he mutters at the closed door. 

Their rooms are empty and unlit, except for the bedroom. Ori must be in the bath, so Fíli knocks on the door, asking permission. There's a long pause, where Fíli starts to worry he's in deeper trouble than he knows, before he hears, “You can come in.”

Ori is submerged in the sunken bath, resting his head on the side. The look he gives Fíli is mostly frustrated at least, not angry. 

“I ended up in meetings,” Fíli explains, sitting beside him. “I'm sorry.”

“How does the king end up in meetings he can't get out of?” Ori asks, running a cloth over the back of his neck. “Fíli, we've talked about this. Your sons need to see you more than once every two days for thirty minutes. They miss you.” He doesn't look at Fíli as he says, “I miss you.” 

“Erebor won't wait,” he replies, reaching out for him. His fingers run down Ori's spine, his skin damp and warm from the bath. “And I thought we talked about Bofur.”

“Do you really think now is the time for you to be throwing stones?” Ori asks, warning him off the subject. “Bofur stopped by for midday a day or so ago. He had gifts for the boys.” He bites his lip, a sign of deeper thoughts than toys warrant. “Nori has sent word. He'll be here in a day or so. Bofur was warning me, is all.” 

Fíli considers what he's about to say for a good minute or so, while Ori scrubs underneath his ears and around his jaw. “Did Nori really tell you Dírin was a mistake?” Ori turns in the water, his face stricken, and Fíli hates to make it worse, but he says, “Dírin overheard. He told me today. He's worried Nori will make you upset again.”

“I cannot believe he overheard that,” Ori says, rising. Fíli gets him a towel, wrapping him in it as he emerges from the water. “He never said anything.”

“He's Dírin,” Fíli reminds him, pulling his husband in close, not minding if his clothes get wet. “He seemed more angry on your behalf than anything else, if it makes you feel better. He might benefit from some affection, though.” 

Ori rests against him, shaking his head. “He shouldn't ever have heard that. He's only twenty-nine, he doesn't understand. What did you tell him?”

“That brothers fight no matter how old they are,” Fíli says, helping him back into their bedroom. He dries Ori, enjoying the time he can spend touching him, being close. When he's done, he buries his face in Ori's neck, inhaling deep, while Ori's fingers clutch at Fíli's hair. He smells good, like soap and water and warmth, like Ori. “You should have told me.”

“You still act like an arse over Bofur,” Ori replies, dragging Fíli in for a kiss. “Why would I tell you something that would make you so angry? It's not important.” He's naked, pressed against Fíli, and kissing him, despite the fact he's none-too-pleased with him right now. Fíli's inclined to agree with anything he says. “But you're right, I should have.”

“I'm sorry I missed supper,” Fíli apologizes, regretful. He had wanted to actually sit with his boys, with Ori, and the idea he's disappointed his sons stings. “Tomorrow?”

“After the celebrations are over, maybe,” Ori says, drawing away to get dressed. “Why are you thinking about Bofur again, all of a sudden?”

“Probably because he sees you more than I do now,” Fíli replies, sitting on the bed to take his boots off. His shirt is sticking to his chest now, so he's quick to strip it off. “I don't even know. I just keep thinking about before Dírin was born, I suppose.” Ori has told him that he considered Bofur's offer, for a moment. Just a moment. “Do you ever wish you had married him instead?”

“Sometimes. In the beginning, when everything was so unsteady. But by the time Dírin was born...” He pulls his shirt over his head, as Fíli tugs his own trousers off, replacing them with some for sleeping in. “I was in love with you by then.”

Ori takes the braids out of Fíli's hair, all the little beads laid aside in a dish for the next day, sitting beside Fíli's rings. Once that's done, they can lie down at last, Ori taking Fíli's hand and laying it over his belly. Under his palm, their fourth child kicks, pressing hard enough Fíli swears he can feel the individual toes. “Active little devil,” Fíli says, wishing he had the words for the feeling in his chest. He's never been able to describe it, not once.

“Hmm,” Ori agrees, wincing. “I swear, it almost felt like the twins again this afternoon, when I was with Bilbo. Hands and feet were everywhere.” 

“And what is your opinion on Bilbo Baggins, after all these years?” Fíli asks, unsure of how much he really wants to know. Over the years, it has been easy to dismiss Bilbo, forget him, who he was. It has been easier to blame it all on him, instead of Thorin.

So much easier.

Ori's eyes are somewhere by Fíli's collarbone, as he says, “He grieves still, if that's what you want to hear. I don't think he's moved on with his life much at all.” He reaches up, strokes Fíli's cheek with his fingertips. “You have to let this go, Fíli. He's as broken-hearted as anyone else. More so, even. I think he's been alone for a long time.” 

Fíli doesn't really answer, so Ori lets him him be, falling asleep after another few minutes. Fíli rolls to his back, and watches the ceiling, making patterns in the natural grain of the polished stone. He's exhausted, but his mind is still racing with thoughts of today, of the work that needs to be done still, of his family, of this great, ridiculous celebration.

Balin and Dís had both claimed that this celebration needed to happen, that they had to welcome all their allies, old and new, and allow all to see how Erebor had risen, bright and shining, from the ashes Smaug had left it in. Fíli had done this. He had rebuilt this bedtime story of his family's, had done all that was expected from him and more. He should be happy, having people fawn over him and his accomplishments.

But no matter how many people say, _Thorin would be proud_ , Fíli can never hear it in his uncle's voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my twenty-fifth birthday today. It's sort of weird.
> 
> Friendly reminder I am also at [The March Rabbit](http://themarchrabbit.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

“Could have guessed I'd find you here.”

The voice makes Bilbo start, the speaker more so. It's Fíli, without his crown, his braids tussled and his furs somewhat askew. Without invitation, not that he needs one in his own palace, he slumps down against the wall behind Bilbo, sliding down until his elbows rest on his knees. There's a wineskin in one hand, though from the smell, Bilbo hopes it's already empty. 

He eyes Bilbo. “You got old.” 

“You're the one with three children and another coming,” Bilbo replies smartly. 

Fíli blinks, and takes a swig of the wine. Not empty then, from the sound. “Yeah, I do. I got three. And I'm married.” He glares at Thorin's statue, the one Bilbo has been speaking to for the past hour or so. Perhaps longer. It's hard to tell time in this place. “And I'm king. It's all your fault, you know? You weren't supposed to die before I was even a hundred.” He studies the wineskin, then the stones under his hand.

Bilbo looks up at Thorin again before he turns and sits beside Fíli, tugging the wineskin out of his hand and taking a swig himself. It's not wine, as it turns out, but something strong enough Bilbo needs a pat on the back from Fíli. He coughs a few more times, Fíli still focused on Thorin for the most part, his blue eyes vaguely accusatory. 

“He wasn't supposed to leave me,” Fíli says, mostly to Bilbo. “Promised he wouldn't ever leave me and Kíli. Not like our father.” He shrugs, his furs and fine clothes rustling noisily against the stone. “He lied. Thorin never lied to us before.” 

“He wasn't really one for it, was he?” Bilbo asks. No, Thorin hadn't been much of a liar. He'd struggled with the truth alone, for pity's sake.

“The twins lie like their tongues are twisted,” Fíli says, smirking. “Think they get that from Ori's side.” 

“Considering how you and your brother couldn't even come up with a lie about the ponies, I believe that. Ori now, that lad's a natural born liar.” Bilbo feels a bit warm, as he takes another long sip. Whatever it is that's in the skin, it's stronger than anything Bilbo's had, even in the Shire. “Had me fooled completely. I thought he hated you.”

Fíli hitches a shoulder. “He did. I didn't much like him either. Thought he was a mousy little sneak just like his brother.” He doesn't ask for the skin back, so Bilbo keeps it to himself, taking another deep drink. It's been a long time since he got good and drunk, and now seems as good a time as any. “He is a little sneak. He's not mousy though, I'll give him that.” He laughs to himself, rolling his head back. “He hit me, you know? The night Dírin happened. He was so angry with me. Everyone had been treating me as though I were...as though I were _Thorin_ , and Ori finally shouted at me, which someone should have already done, and then he hit me. Me. The king.” Fíli laughs, a lazy sound tinged by far too much drink, and when he looks down at Bilbo, he grins. “And ten months later...Dírin.” 

“And a bolting marriage,” Bilbo reminds him.

“And a bolting marriage,” Fíli repeats, nodding. “Wonder what he would have thought of that?”

Above them, looking ahead, never seeing, never knowing, Thorin stands, strong and straight and proud. “I think he would have been thrilled to hold Dírin,” Bilbo says, closing his eyes to the memory of Thorin's face. “To see his line continued, standing strong. He would have been happy.” Fíli exhales heavily beside him, and when Bilbo dares open his eyes, he sees how much he looks like Thorin. “He would have been happy for you.” 

“You don't think he would have been proud of me?” Fíli sounds almost derisive. 

“I think he would have smacked you upside your fool head for getting Ori in trouble before you were married,” Bilbo says, wishing he had his pipe. He'd forgotten it in his room, but he never seems to want a smoke more than after he's a bit in his cups. To his delight, Fíli produces a pipe of his own, packs it, and lights it.

There's a moment where he thinks Fíli might indeed still be the spoiled prat he was, but then he passes Bilbo the pipe and allows him a puff. Fíli is long past politely drunk himself, so Bilbo decides that in for a farthing, in for a gold, and takes another long drink of whatever it in the wineskin. Not really a wineskin, he thinks, or perhaps says aloud. 

“If Ori asks, it's yours,” Fíli says. “He's already cross with me, and I want to actually be allowed to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“So, the king can be barred from his own bed?” Bilbo crows, finding the thought humorous. 

Fíli puffs on his pipe. “Sometimes the boys come to our bed at night. It would confuse them if Ori wasn't there. I've been gone before. They wouldn't think anything of it.” 

Bilbo supposes that makes sense. His eyes stray back up to Thorin. “I miss him,” he says, as though his grief has a leg to stand on beside Fíli's. “Some days I can forget just how much, but I always remember in the end, and it's worse for it.” He holds his hand out for the pipe, and receives it, Fíli's fingers only fumbling a little. “How do you manage?”

“I have Ori,” Fíli replies. “And my children. My brother, and Tauriel, and Taurís. Gimli. My mother. Balin and Dwalin.” He looks up at the ceiling, or maybe more, as he says, “I have Erebor, as Thorin wanted. I hardly even had a chance to grieve. No sooner was I stitched up then Dáin's lot had dredged up a crown for me from Durin knows where, and started called me _Your Majesty_. Oh, and by the way, _Your Majesty_ , your uncle is dead, your brother might never be able to use his right hand again, your adviser is sleeping still, and your uncle's most trusted friend is addled by poppy's milk. We know you're not even yet a century and you've never actually been in Erebor proper, but we're sure you'll manage to rally your people.” He closes his eyes, and by the Valar, but he looks so tired, the poor lad. He'd looked so tired then too. If Bilbo had cared to look past his own aching heart, perhaps he would have seen how badly Fíli needed help. “If it hadn't been for Ori, I would have gone mad. I didn't know anything about the laws and treaties, or how to understand all of it, but he did. He was Balin's apprentice, you know. Used to take letters for him.”

Again, Bilbo looks at Thorin, and this time when he closes his eyes, he can remember the easy way Thorin spoke, the way everyone always turned to listen. Thorin had never needed grand speeches or shows of power. A speech was grand because he was the one making it, power in every move he made. He had been born a king, and it showed. 

Sometimes, Bilbo wonders just what he thinks would have happened had Thorin lived. Would he really have been able to stay here, in this great mountain, away from his Shire, his home? Had his love for Thorin really been so great? “My feet are cold,” he says aloud. “I have walked across snow, and not been as cold as I am in this mountain.”

“Maybe you're just getting old,” Fíli accuses, his eyes narrowed at Bilbo, specifically his hair. “Hobbits age as Men do, don't they?” 

“Not quite.” Bilbo touches his hair, almost self-consciously. “We live a bit longer. Not as long as you though.” He smirks, morbidly amused. “You know, Thorin likely would have outlived me.” How old had he been? Bilbo hadn't even known, really. 

“He would not have cared,” Fíli mutters darkly to his knees. “You broke your vows to him -”

“Now see here,” Bilbo starts, offended. “I had no vows with Thorin, Fíli, none at all -”

Fíli stands, towering in his anger. “So there was no promise between you? You had no plans to stay by his side here, in Erebor?” 

“Well...” Bilbo falters, because yes, those things were true. They were. “There was nothing _formal_ -”

“You know nothing of us!” Fíli bellows, and he is Thorin in his rage as well as his joy. “We do not speak those words lightly! We say _nothing_ lightly! Words are vows to us!”

Bilbo is too drunk and too old for these accusations. “Then Thorin broke his first.” He finds his feet, though he's unsteady on them. Oh, he shouldn't have had so much of that. He's not as young as he once was. “You were not privy to all that passed between us.” The way Fíli is looking at him, drunk and angry and _lost_ , it makes Bilbo look up at Thorin again. The stones are cool against his back, even through his clothes. “You were hardly older than a child yourself, Fíli.” 

“I am not a child any more -,” Fíli begins.

“Yet you still shout and carry on as one.” His head is spinning, even when he closes his eyes. “I should not have come here. I should have stayed home, in the Shire. There's nothing here.” His throat burns, and he would cry if he could manage the embarrassment of doing it in front of Fíli. “I am not wanted here, either, do not think I do not know.” 

There's a long, awkward quiet.

“...Ori has enjoyed your visit,” Fíli says grudgingly, more to the wall than anything else. 

The cool stone is nice against his flushed skin. “Do you know, your uncle once promised me that if we were married, he could teach me your language? And that he would. He would be sure I spoke it better than Elvish, at any rate.” 

Fíli chuckles at that, and Bilbo's rather sure they're both only being held up by the wall at this point. The pipe they were sharing is lying on the floor, the still-burning pipeweed spilling out across the marble floor, slowly going out as Bilbo watches. 

They stand in silence for who knows how long, until some very loud boots come stomping down the hall, and then Bilbo opens his eyes to see Dwalin peering down at him. “Hello,” he says, and looks over at Fíli. He himself is looking up at Kíli, who only looks vaguely amused at his brother. 

“King isn't supposed to be drunk in the hall, Fíli,” Kíli is saying, helping his brother up. 

“I'm the king, I make the rules,” Fíli protests. Bilbo catches Kíli rolling his eyes before he has to close his own again. He's so tired, he welcomes the way Dwalin all but carries him off from Fíli and Kíli, despite how his court armour digs into Bilbo. Behind him, he hears Kíli _lecturing_ Fíli, and that all but has him in peals of half-sleeping laughter. 

Somewhere above him, Dwalin grunts. “What's got you so tickled then, Hobbit?”

“Kíli is lecturing him,” Bilbo says, delighted. 

Dwalin doesn't seem to find it as funny. He grunts again, or maybe he's actually saying something in their language, who knows, and continues to drag Bilbo off back towards his room. It's fortunate, because Bilbo needs the toilet now, too much drink in too old a body. Once they're in the room, Dwalin seems at a loss. “Can you sort yourself out, or are you going to fall and crack your fool skull?” 

“I'm not actually all that sure, do you know?” Bilbo finds the wineskin in his pockets, stuffed in there somehow or another, and he holds it out to Dwalin. “What is this?”

Dwalin takes a whiff, and groans. “That idiot,” he mutters to himself, as Bilbo makes his way to the toilet. Dwarf plumbing, yes, well there is much to be said about Dwarf plumbing. It's just lovely, it is, really. Once he's finished, he ambles back into the room to find Dwalin sitting in one of the chairs, eyeing Bilbo. “I'm amazed you're even walking after drinking that. Used to knock Thorin and me right on our arses.” 

“I believe Fíli had most of it,” Bilbo points out, feeling pleasantly blurred. 

The big Dwarf huffs. “Probably heaving half of it up by now. Kíli will make sure he's at last half-sober before he sends him to bed. And he'll have a splitting skull in the morning to remind him of his limits.” With that, he stands, and starts to help divest Bilbo of his clothing. It's somewhat scandalous, or rather, it would be, were Bilbo still a proper Hobbit with a proper amount of drink in him.

He gets Bilbo out of his jacket and his waistcoat, hangs them over a chair, but only clucks over Bilbo's braces. That's up to Bilbo's own admittedly shaking fingers, and eventually he gets them undone. He pulls his shirt out, and feels a touch more comfortable. 

“Into the bed with you, Hobbit,” Dwalin commands, and puts Bilbo in atop the covers, on his side. “If you're going to be sick, do it over the side of the bed. I'll have one of the servants look in on you. Or maybe grab one to sit with you. Not as though half of them are doing anything important, useless sods that they are.” 

“My, you'd think I was someone important,” he laughs, tickled by the notion. He's lucky to get an invitation to tea once a month at home in the Shire, and here he has a general of Erebor putting him to bed.

Dwalin huffs. “You _are_ important. The Dwarves of Erebor see you as Thorin's widower.” Oh, well yes, Bilbo supposes that makes things a bit clearer. “As do I.”

And Bilbo supposes that makes things even clearer. 

“You could stay, if you like,” Bilbo offers tentatively. “Make sure I'm still alive in the morning, and all.” 

Dwalin grunts something in his own language, then rumbles, “Suppose I had better. Little idiots Ori hires to the staff, cannot trust a-one of them to tie their own laces most of the time. He hires them because he feels sorry for them, you know. War orphans and the like.” He settles down on the sofa, built far too large for Bilbo, but just big enough for a Dwarf Dwalin's size. Bilbo would invite him to share the bed if he didn't think it would insult him. “He turned out more like his brothers than I thought he would. A soft touch for all the pitiful in the world.”

“Never saw Nori as a soft touch,” Bilbo argues, his eyes too heavy to hold open. 

“He never saw you as pitiful,” Dwalin replies, and Bilbo supposes he should be pleased by that, but his mind has found it's way back to _widower_ , and with that, back to Thorin.

“Fíli is so much like him, isn't he?” He doesn't bother opening his eyes. With Dwalin, he doesn't need to, to see his stony face watching the ceiling. “I could see it, sometimes, on the journey. But he was always such a silly lad, I kept forgetting. Now I look at him, and I have to search hard to find that silly lad again.”

“Saw a good deal of him just now, I would think,” Dwalin says, indulging Bilbo's drunken ramblings. 

Bilbo makes a humming sort of noise, trying to force his tongue to form proper words. “He was mostly angry with me,” he says. “That reminded me of Thorin too.”

“Aye,” Dwalin agrees. “S'ppose that would remind you of him.”

He thinks he's going to fall asleep in a minute, and will probably stay asleep until morning, unless his bladder decides he really did overdo the drink. He doesn't want this conversation to end with Dwalin assuming Bilbo only remembers the bad of his friend, that Bilbo's love is gone. That wouldn't do, not at all. “You know,” he says, stumbling, his fingers twisting the covers. “You see, well, everything tends to remind me of him, if I let it.” 

There's no answer, just the crackling of the fire a servant so thoughtfully built up for him. This is a very nice set of rooms, for a guest. He assumed Balin must have chosen it, but that really would have been a servant's job, wouldn't it of? A servant had decided Bilbo would receive these lovely rooms, that his clothes would be pressed and put away when he returned from that party the first night, that he should have a fire at all times. 

The servants see him how Dwalin sees him, he realizes, in drunken clarity. He is the widower of the king.

Oh, well, that should be horribly depressing, shouldn't it? And he would cry if he hadn't shed every tear he had for Thorin already, but really, _really_ , it's just so nice to finally be seen as broken as he feels. 

Of course, he feels quite a bit more broken by the time breakfast rolls around. He's far too old to be drinking in hallways with kings, young kings, young Dwarf kings who he can only hope feel twice as ill as he does, as he downs yet another glass of cold ginger water. One of the servants had brought a cold cloth for the back of his neck, and that helps too, but really, he could kill Fíli. Whatever was in that flask, Bilbo wants to know, so he can be sure he never drinks it again. 

Dwalin is leaving when Bilbo awakes, the side of his bed and the floor thankfully clean of any vomit. He hitches his chin at Bilbo, acknowledging him, and leaves the room, a servant slipping in the room in his place.

The servant, barely older than Dírin if Bilbo had to guess, draws him a bath without prompting, smelling strongly of something like mint. By the time Bilbo is out and properly dressed, he feels more like a Hobbit and less like a slug in the sun, just in time for yet another servant, again hardly out of childhood, to knock on his door and inform him he's to take his morning tea with Ori. The lass does not phrase it as a request, but Bilbo's stomach has started to growl, so he goes along with her, up the many staircases and through several halls, until she leads Bilbo into the most un-Dwarven place he's ever been in Erebor.

It's a terrace, built into the sides of the mountain, and it looks out over Dale and the waters, the edge barred by a low stone wall. On closer look, it's entirely Dwarven, the wall cut out with geometric designs, the tiles done in a complicated pattern Bilbo doesn't think any Elf or Man would ever bother with. Certainly no Hobbit. 

Ori is sitting on floor cushions at a low, heavy wooden table, under a canopy made of blue material. He looks up when Bilbo and the servant enter, and smiles, welcoming Bilbo. In the morning light, he's not nearly as finely dressed as Bilbo has seen him over the past few days. His hair is mostly down, and unadorned, though his beard is neatly braided up, with a few little shining clasps in it. 

It's odd, but for some reason, Bilbo has never been able to picture Dwarves in anything less than boots. That was how he always knew them, but he supposes now that it makes sense that when their daily lives didn't call for it, Dwarves didn't mind wearing softer shoes, or none at all. It's still odd to see Ori's bare feet now. He wears gold rings on the middle toe of each foot, but that is at least somewhat expected of a Prince Consort. 

“I would think it's too cold for you,” Bilbo remarks, but understands when Ori points to the brazier behind him. Once under the canopy, it's rather warm, enough Bilbo tugs on his cravat. “Good morning to you, then. What brought this on?” Not that he wouldn't think Ori would invite him to tea at some point, of course. 

Ori smiles over his mug. “My husband stumbled into bed smelling like a tavern and rambling about you and the twins and whatever utter nonsense that stuff put in his head. I thought you might be possibly owed an apology.”

“Oh, is that it?” Bilbo pours himself a cup, and helps himself to the sugar. There's no cream or milk, unfortunately, but it's more than he had travelling with the caravan here. “No, he just said some things I could have expected, if I had thought on it. Nothing terribly offensive.” 

His old friend doesn't seem to believe that. “He likes to talk to Thorin too, you know. I usually go look for him there, if I can't find him in the middle of the night.”

“And you bring him 'round?” Bilbo asks conversationally, but Ori shakes his head. 

“No. I go talk to Dori sometimes too. Usually I just bring him a drink, if he doesn't already have one.” He pours himself another cup, and sits back a bit. Bilbo cannot imagine being so uncomfortable all the time. 

“I talk to Thorin,” Bilbo admits, his fingers warmed by the cup. “All the time, really. I live on my own, as I told you. And the Shire has never quite forgiven me for being such an adventurer, so I don't have much company, outside of the fauntlings wanting stories.” He adds a bit more sugar, the tea stronger than his preference. “Actually, I've started travelling quite a bit since I left Erebor. Got a bit curious about the world, and once that woke up in me, couldn't put it back to sleep. I even went to Ered Luin for a season.” And hadn't that been something? Ered Luin wasn't anything like Erebor, and really, if he thinks about it, he can see why Ori might enjoy this terrace so much. Ered Luin had been a lot of goats and sheep, an unusual amount of ducks, and even farming. The proper part of the settlement had been under stone, but, and perhaps this was because Ered Luin was not so grand, the Dwarves had not seemed to mind one way or the other. 

Ori smiles, re-positioning himself. “Dori hated Ered Luin. He was a proper Erebor Dwarf, and he didn't hold with all that sunshine and rain and dirt and plants. He loved food, he just hated having anything to do with the production. It wasn't proper for a Dwarf.” 

“And you?” Bilbo asks, smiling back. 

“I was born there,” he says. “I loved it. Fíli and Kíli were too. I'd like to go back and see it some day, when the boys are older, and I trust Fíli enough to leave him alone for a year.”

“Why wouldn't you?” 

“Because if I left for a year now, Tauriel would be sent with me, and war would be declared before we'd gotten as far as Mirkwood. He and Kíli cannot be trusted to hold their tempers, and their mother doesn't help.” Bilbo has only exchanged a handful of words with the imposing Princess, and he has not enjoyed any of them. If he wore boots, he'd have been left quaking in them from the experiences. “Noble Line of Durin indeed. Line of Arrogant Sodding Idiots, more like.” 

A memory slips through like a coin between his fingers, and he remembers Thorin standing before Bard in the snow, declaring himself the King Under the Mountain. _Daring_ Bard to say different, daring any of them. 

“Do you remember Thorin telling Smaug he'd gotten fat?” 

Ori laughs, and so does Bilbo, because yes, Line of Arrogant Sodding Idiots might be fitting. “Yes. And do you know what Kíli shouted at an Orc general when he was fighting in the South?” Bilbo shakes his head. “He asked him how he justified forcing his mother to carry him into battle.” That gets Bilbo laughing again, while Ori shakes his head. “And the amount of incredibly stupid things Fíli has said in court, you wouldn't believe. One time, he asked an adviser if she had been injured in the Battle of Five Armies. She said no, so Fíli asked what childhood injury she had suffered, because no one could be born so utterly stupid.” 

“And your boys?” Bilbo asks, and that gets a groan. “Do you know, when I met them, Dírin and Taurís were trying to get the twins. And when Balin asked Dírin how you and Fíli would feel about him chasing them about in the halls in front of guests, he said Fíli would only ask how important the guest was.” 

“He would,” Ori agrees, shrugging. “Fíli indulges Dírin when he thinks I'm not looking. He and Kíli are the ones who taught him and Taurís how to sneak about the way they do, I'm sure. And they're the ones who taught them to first drop water on their victims, then flour.” 

That, Bilbo can believe. Quite easily, in fact. “So he is still a silly lad, underneath the grandeur. I was starting to worry.”

“That he is,” Ori says, setting his mug down and settling a palm over his belly. “Dírin and the twins all but worship him.” And there's so much fondness there, Bilbo can hardly believe it of the boy he'd once known, who'd spent a day throwing acorns at the back of Fíli's head until Fíli had put his hand on his sword, glaring at Ori, daring him.

Ori had waited about an hour, Bilbo mindlessly watching from his own pony, and then he'd thrown another, striking Fíli directly between the shoulders. Watching them snipe at each other when they broke camp that night had been equally entertaining. Kíli egging on both sides indiscriminately. 

“I hardly believed it when Balin told me about the pair of you,” Bilbo says, stirring his tea. “I still hardly believe it.” 

“I hardly believed it for a year at least.” Ori doesn't seem offended by the surprise, thankfully. Bilbo would hate to ruin one of the few friendships he's managed to somewhat rebuild by being nosy. “You know, Nori wanted me to end the engagement.”

“Bofur told me,” Bilbo remarks, but bites the inside of his cheek after, not sure he should have. He's not sure what Ori knows, if anything at all, or if Bofur is a safe subject. 

Ori shifts, one hand on his belly, the other behind him, balancing himself. His expression is unreadable to Bilbo, still unused to this adult Ori. It at least doesn't seem upset. “He told me he'd seen you. I'd forgotten.” When Bilbo ruffles his own hair, needlessly fixing his curls, Ori hems a bit. “He loves to visit with Dírin and the twins.”

“Of course,” Bilbo agrees hurriedly. “Of course. They are jolly little fellows, great fun.” Great trouble as well, but Bilbo doesn't mind. They're no more trouble than the usual little gangs of fauntlings that terrorise the Shire. “And Bofur always seemed to have a good hand with children, oh, well, he was a toymaker, I suppose that makes sense, yes...”

“He's still a toymaker,” Ori says, his hand making slow circles on his belly.

“Yes, he is,” Bilbo says, because yes, that's true. “He offered to make a set of soldiers for my cousin's baby. Apparently it's a game of some sort?” 

“Something like chess, only more practical.” He's distracted, looking off towards the edge of the terrace, towards Dale or the waters. “We use it to train children in strategy. It's a placing game.” 

“A what?” 

“Dwarves have many games for children that aren't really games. It's so we can see how their minds work, where the talents lie, how they best learn. They're called placing games. Fíli could beat almost anyone at soldiers when we were all little.” 

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “Almost? Who could beat the Crown Prince?” He assumes Kíli. 

“Me,” Ori says pleasantly. 

“You?”

“Fíli had instincts, even then. But I had books.” Ori smirks, and looks again a little more familiar. “Dírin has instincts too. He almost always wins. Even against Taurís. The twins want to learn too, but they're still too young.” They do seem a bit wild still for anything involving sitting for more than a few minutes at a time, unless under duress. “You don't need to be worried. I know. He told me, before I got married.” 

Bilbo struggles for words. Dratted Dwarves. Hobbits would never discuss this sort of thing, not ever. Dwarves don't believe in lying for the sake of feelings though, not amongst companions. He doesn't know how he ever would have managed living in Erebor.

 _He wouldn't have cared_.

Oh, of all the words to remember from last night. If he did not have that one last aching memory of Thorin, he could very well believe that and dwell in the darkness of his own doubts. But no, he does still have Thorin's hand in his, growing ever heavier, talking, just talking, about all sorts of nonsense. Parties and laughing. _My treasure_. 

“Does it bother you?” Bilbo wants to know, if only so he can feel close to them all again. There's a distance between them, not only made by the years. Fíli's words last night had not been written by the wineskin, only unlocked. 

“It bothers Fíli more than anyone,” Ori says, finally standing. Bilbo does as well, his knees creaking uncomfortably. Ori seems intent on walking a bit, but he waves Bilbo down. “Sometimes it settles if I move around a bit. Right now, the little monster is trying its very best to put its feet through my liver.” Bilbo gratefully sinks back down, rubbing at his right knee. Mercy, but even with the comfort of the caravans, the journey had not been kind on him. “If Bofur had ever even hinted at those sorts of feelings in Ered Luin, I would have been over the moon. But by the time he said a word, I wasn't that lad any more. I had a baby in my belly, and that was about all I had. Dori was dead, Nori had left me, my mother was still in Ered Luin. All I had for sure was Dírin.” 

He does a full circle of the space under the wide canopy, his bare feet making no noise on the soft outdoor rugs. He's a strange sight to Bilbo, with his rounded belly and rich clothes. Fíli spares nothing for Ori, Bilbo suspects. “But Bofur loved you.” 

“The shine had worn off for me,” Ori replies quietly, wincing and pressing his hand against the small of his back to balance himself as he stretches. “I couldn't look at anything the same way I had before. Not my brothers, not Bofur, not Erebor. Nothing made me happy for a long time.” He rubs his belly, smiling distantly. “Dírin made me happy. I could love him, before I ever saw him. And he made Fíli happy. Do you know, the morning after I told him, he smiled, and I realized I hadn't seen him smile since that night in Lake Town. For us, Dírin was everything.” 

And he wasn't for Bofur. It goes unsaid, and Bilbo leaves it that way. 

Ori sits again, taking a sip of his tea. “I want to hear about Ered Luin. Tell me, who did you speak to? What did you see?”

♦

“You spent the night in the Hobbit's room.” Fíli doesn't seem displeased, just curious. “Why?”

“Because, Your Majesty, I thought if the Company's burglar choked to death during the anniversary, some might see that as an ill sign,” Dwalin answers, stretching out his fingers. “I watched over him from the sofa.”

Fíli taps the wooden arm of his chair, looking over the table. It's only them for now. Balin and the rest will join them soon. “Why?”

“Full of curiousity today, aren't you, Your Grace?” Dwalin does not think he likes where this is going. “He was Thorin's spouse, Fíli. That's how Erebor sees him. That's how you must treat him, or there will be more rumours than we can control. This is supposed to be about showing Erebor's strength, not the weaknesses of its king.” 

“Thorin took Erebor back. There was no weakness there at the end,” Fíli protests strongly.

“I meant you, Fíli. If Erebor or our shiny new allies think -”

Fíli holds up a hand, silencing Dwalin. “I already have Ori lecturing me. Don't throw your opinion in too, I don't need it.” 

“Apparently, you do,” Dwalin replies smartly. “Lad, you have to understand, you cannot let yourself show so much to these vipers. Some are our friends, yes, but some are just waiting for an opportunity to fuck us over. Getting drunk in the halls does not look good.” 

His king rubs at his temple, right where the crown sits. “You're not my teacher any more, Dwalin. Don't presume you still get to tell me what to do.” 

There was a time Dwalin would have threatened to smack him one for the cheek. “Aye, as you say.”

Fíli's fingers tap out an old song, one Dwalin hasn't heard him play in an age. Just before the doors opens, admitting Balin and another adviser, Fíli says, “I meant no disrespect, Dwalin. It's just, when I look at him, I think of Thorin, and I...I don't want to remember him like that.”

He reaches out, and claps the lad on the shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “I know, lad. I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

“ _The Moon, her light, it glows for you, and the stars were forged, just to light your face,_ ” Fíli sings in Khuzdul to Ori's belly, his hands moving up and down Ori's sides. “ _She shows her full face to you, she smiles upon you, you my love, my love, my love._ ” Ori loves his voice. Even when he couldn't stand Fíli, he had admitted to Fíli having a good voice. 

“You're so convinced it can hear you,” Ori says idly, covering one of Fíli's hands with his. 

“Dírin and the pair heard me,” Fíli argues, kissing Ori's belly before lying down beside him. 

“They did not,” Ori insists. 

“Did too.” He's so stubborn. It's endearing sometimes. Sometimes it makes Ori want to kill him, especially when the trait shows itself in their children, Dírin more than the twins. The twins are wild, but rarely wilful. Dírin, on the other hand, can be all Fíli. “They told you so.” He's also incredibly charming when he smiles at Ori like this. All three of the boys have that trait. 

“After you told them to say it to prove me wrong,” Ori points out, and gets a grin. “Your offspring has been kicking me.” The twins had been possibly the worst six months of his life once they started becoming active, and he had been ready to murder Fíli by the end of it. Then of course, he'd seen Fíli holding Dorin while Torin slept in the cot, and, as with Dírin, the whole thing had felt more than worth it. “Why do your sons always kick? Tauriel says Taurís never kicked so much.”

“Because you're the bearer,” Fíli teases, rising to kiss Ori. “Really, they spend all those months in you, so I think you're more responsible for their temperaments. What do you say to that?”

Ori lets him steal another kiss, enjoying the chance to be close as Fíli bears them down onto the bed, half on top of Ori. He kisses Ori's mouth, his cheeks, the lobe of his ear, smiling the whole while, and oh, but Ori loves him so. If anyone had told he would give his love away to Fíli back before, when they were just children themselves...he might have guessed Kíli, if he had to pick one, but he had genuinely believed it would be Bofur. 

“Not right now,” Ori says, distracted, when Fíli's hands move lower. 

His husband-king grins apologetically at Ori, his hands going back to more respectable places. “Should we even be? We didn't with Dírin, or the twins. Couldn't it hurt the baby?”

“We didn't with the twins because I was miserable then.” Ori had been ill and heavy and unhappy for the last bit with them, hardly wanting a kiss, much less to have sex. Mostly, he'd wanted to wring Fíli's neck and anyone else who bothered him. “I asked the healers. They said it's fine. Just...I'm thinking, right now.”

“What are you thinking about, then? I would hate to think I'm boring you.” 

“You're not,” Ori huffs, striking him gently on the shoulder as he rolls off Ori. “I was thinking about Ered Luin.”

“You're not still thinking of going back?” 

“It was our home,” Ori reminds him, but Fíli's reaction is the same as it ever is when the subject comes up. He shrugs, tucking one arm under his head. “Weren't you happy there? You seemed happy.” He and Kíli always seemed happy. 

Fíli huffs. “I was the exiled Crown Prince of a kingdom I had never seen. I was never happy.” 

Ori's never heard this before. Funny, after three decades. Their lives are ruled by their kingdom, their children, not their pasts. They don't discuss it at all, most of the time. “Everyone thought you were.” He curls into Fíli, taking the hand not pillowing Fíli's head in his own. “I hated you.”

“I hated you,” Fíli returns, letting Ori play with his hand. “It's funny. I'd burn down the world for you now.” His promise kindles the fire in Ori's heart, and he kisses Fíli's palm. His husband is watching him intently, his eyes so blue. All their children have his eyes so far. Ori doesn't mind that. “My mother and my father and my uncle hated Ered Luin. They felt lost. Without a home. I thought Ered Luin was our home, but they couldn't be happy with our kingdom stolen and our people living in poverty. And Kíli was always...”

“Being Kíli?” Ori suggests, smiling. Kíli and himself had been close, the second prince one of the few people Dori approved of. He was loud and ridiculous, but he had neat manners when he needed them, and he was always well behaved in his lessons, so Dori liked him. “He wasn't very good at being responsible back then.” 

“Neither was I,” Fíli says, but Ori shakes his head. “You didn't even like me then, but you're going to argue?”

“You were always responsible. Remember when Kíli and Gimli left the gate open, and the goats got out and ate up near everything in that one confectioner's garden? And she was so angry, she was going to whip them both.” It had been less _forgetting_ to close the gate, and more _teasing the goats until they broke loose_. The confectioner had been furious, all her vegetables eaten up, the money now owed to her more than any of them had. And Ori, he had just stood on the fence while they teased the poor goats, not wanting to play, thinking it wrong, but not brave enough to tell Kíli and Gimli to stop. “You took the blame and you paid her the money. And then you replanted everything for her. Where did you even get the money?”

“I'd been playing my fiddle in the street for it. Took me months to get that much.” Fíli huffs. “I'd wanted to buy this set of books. They were a history set of the Dwarven kingdoms. Had etchings of Khazad-dûm, before it fell. Of Erebor.” Fíli had never seen Erebor, his supposed kingdom, nor had Ori, and this thought makes him kiss his husband for a few long minutes. “Never did get them. Someone else bought them, and it was too cold to play on the streets then. Not good for the strings.” His hand on the back of Ori's neck is warm and comforting, as he rests his head on Fíli's bare chest. His husband-king's blood runs hot, and he wears as little as possible to bed. “Suppose it doesn't matter any more, but I still get annoyed with Kíli and Gimli when I think about it.”

“Not me? I was there too.” 

Fíli snorts, switching the arms under his head and jostling Ori. Once he's settled again, he pulls Ori back down, his arm now around Ori so he can drag his knuckles up and down Ori's spine. Ori loves it when he does this. There's a low burn between them, not quite a promise of sex tonight, but more the potential idea of it, especially after so long without. It's lovely, a sweetness Ori never could have imagined before. “No, not you. I have plenty of other reasons to be irritated with you.” Ori pinches him and gets pinched back, his husband making a face at him that he scrunches his nose at. 

“I enjoy Bilbo's company,” he states firmly, warning Fíli off that subject tonight. He knows why Fíli can't stand their old friend's company, had heard it rambled drunkenly in his ear that night Fíli and Bilbo got drunk in the hall, and he cannot quite blame Fíli for it. He'd loved Thorin as a father, as more than that. A father-king, a hero. He might be the king now, but Fíli still needs that image of Thorin. Bilbo, he tarnishes it, reminds Fíli of Thorin's madness in the end, how even he fell. “Do you _really_ want to go down this path with me? You missed supper again, I might remind you. Your sons haven't seen you at all today.” 

“Ah, so they're _my_ sons. What mischief did they cause today?” 

“Nothing in particular today. The Elves of the Shifting Sands love the twins, by the way. The little scoundrels have latched on to them, and the dignitaries keep slipping them sweets. They hardly ate any proper food, and I _know_ they have a stash hidden somewhere, though neither me nor Nanny can find it.” The boys claim there is no such stash, but they'd said in that way that meant they were lying through their teeth. “Our children are evil.”

“Our children are terribly clever,” Fíli adds. “And the other thing as well.” He pulls Ori in tighter for a moment, kissing the top of his head. “I miss seeing them. I hate this. Why are we doing this?”

“Lord Balin and your mother thought it was a good idea, and I agree.” He honestly does, it's just... “I'd rather it didn't take you away from us so often. The boys don't understand as I do. Well, Dírin is beginning to, but I...I don't like that? Do you understand?”

His husband nods, Ori feeling the motion in Fíli's chest, as he looks at the fire. “You remember? That night you came to me, when you pressed my hand against your belly...you couldn't even say it. But he was there. And then he was born, and I had never felt anything like it. I loved him so much. I loved you.” His knuckles run up Ori's back. “I knew I did, but I didn't know how to say it just then. Give me credit though, I did get it out eventually.”

“You did.” 

Ori had been in the nursery, Dírin in his arms, spinning about, humming some old song he hadn't heard played in an age, being silly. Happy, to finally hold his child in his arms, see how his dark eyelashes clumped together in little spikes, his golden hair just dusting his smooth head. His tiny nails and the lines in his palms. The dips of his elbows, the softness of his knees. His blue eyes, looking up at Ori, knowing him, just as Ori knew him. 

Humming, silly. So very silly, but he's never minded being silly over his children. When he'd felt a hand on the small of his back, he had started before he realized it was Fíli, looking down at the pair of them, his other hand helping Ori secure Dírin against him. “I love you.” It hadn't been any dramatic moment, no battles newly won, no wonderful new reveal. Ori had known he loved Fíli from the moment the birthing pain began and he realized he wanted Fíli with him, longed for no one else more in that panicked instant. He wanted Fíli there, wanted Fíli, because he made everything safe. He made the world better for Ori.

He'd known Fíli loved him too when he still recovering in the bed, barely awake. He had seen his husband holding their son, sitting beside Ori in that great big bed, singing to Dírin. Ori had known Fíli loved him as well, but hearing it that day in the nursery, with their son in his arms, that had been hushed and sweet and perfect. 

Ori sits up, mindful of his swollen belly, and says, “I love you.”

“Hmm,” Fíli says, pulling him in for a few more kisses. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Ori repeats. Fíli needs to hear it sometimes, needs Ori to say it over and over. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he adds, for good measure, kissing Fíli while he does. “And you love me.”

“You're very sure of that,” Fíli teases. “I know what you mean though. I hate that he's growing up already. He's aware of things all the time now, and he hears things. All the gossip, he hears it. Worries me. I keep thinking he's going to hear things I'd rather he not know. Things about Thorin, and us.” Even the most beloved king had dissenters, and the rumours that had started circulating when they were first married had never died. They'd been quieted, the whole Court careful of Fíli's temper after that one particularly loud lord had been silenced. But they were always there still, a quiet murmur in the background. 

They'd tried to say Dírin was not Fíli's at first, but once the boy was born, and people saw, those ones had reluctantly died. Torin and Dorin though, they're easier targets, and it angers Ori to hear his children questioned. The most popular rumours claim that Ori was always close with Kíli. It's far better than the other one brought to Ori. “It's ridiculous,” he says, unsure of if he should tell Fíli this one. Fíli finds the ones about Kíli hilarious, in the way he and Kíli always snigger over stupid things. 

Even Tauriel had been amused by it, asking Ori if he needed her to loan him Kíli any more, only she wouldn't mind a night without his snoring. Kíli had been more offended over _that_ than the idea that he had sired his brother-sons. 

Fíli will not be amused by this one, but then, that means Ori should tell him in private so he can rage about it now. 

“He's already heard one. He asked me something that told me exactly what he heard, he just didn't want to say it.” Ori sits up, struggling a bit but managing. It's not that he's very big. He never seems to get too big, not as Tauriel had been. Something in his balance is changed though, and it makes things more difficult than they need to be. “There's a rumour going around that Torin and Dorin were sired by Bofur. Dírin asked me if I had ever loved Bofur. Just the way he asked it, I knew what he had heard...”

Fíli is quiet for so long, Ori starts to really worry. Shouting is fine, they both shout plenty and usually at one another. But going quiet, not speaking at all, that's real anger. “Fíli, if you entertain it for even a moment, I will murder you, and I won't even wait until you're sleeping -”

“For mercy's sake, they look just like my mother and Thorin. That's the stupidest thing I've heard this week.” But he still gets out of bed, stands in front of the fire, silent again. 

“Then why are you angry?” Ori asks, the covers and furs falling off of him. He's cold, but he's not paying that much mind now. “Fíli, answer me.” 

“I know you're mine. I know it. It just makes me angry knowing that someone else sees how he mopes around after you, and they...” His jaw tightens, and in the firelight, even without his crown and his regal clothes, he is a fearsome king. “I don't hate him. And I know why you're kind to him.”

“He respects our marriage,” Ori reminds him. “And he's my friend. What he feels doesn't change what I owe him as a friend, but I can't help how others see it.” How they assume Ori cannot possibly forgive Bofur's heart, that there must be something scandalous going on. Most don't mean any harm by it, merely something to entertain themselves with, but it aggravates Ori, especially when Fíli has to make it sound like Ori felt sorry for Bofur. “And I cannot believe we're having this conversation again!”

“They're my sons!” Fíli shouts, to Ori's great relief. “They're _my_ sons, and no one will tell them or me any different! I'm tired of people calling you a _lying 'Ri_ , of treating you as though I deigned to marry you! The fact you even said _yes_ to me was more pity than anything else, don't deny it!”

“I didn't pity you, you idiot! I wanted to marry you because you were the only person I could stand to be around for more than a day!” Fíli had been a fixed point, his only fixed point. “Even Nori didn't stay! He didn't stay and you did! That's why I married you! And I don't care what they say. You and I know what we are. Our family knows. You're mine, and I'm yours.” 

When Fíli comes back to him, there's darkness in his face, and now, _now_ Ori welcomes him as he slides between Ori's legs, wraps his arms around Fíli's shoulders and holds him close while they kiss. Ori's breath catches when Fíli grinds his hips down, the two of them used to accommodating Ori's belly in other ways. Fíli clearly wants this position right now though. 

“I'm yours,” Ori reassures him, cupping his face. 

“Don't ever leave,” Fíli pleads, turning to kiss Ori's palm. “Please.” 

“Never,” Ori promises, shaking his head. “The only place I want to be is by your side.”

He knew the stress of all of this has been eating at Fíli since as far back as the preparations, but he hadn't known he was this bad. Fíli always laughs things off, or makes snide remarks. He never shows it, not unless he's here, safe with Ori in their bed. They can shout and be angry and upset. 

Fíli can plead with him, here. 

Ori makes a pleased sound when Fíli is finally inside of him, is short nails digging into Fíli's shoulders. He loves this part of sex, where he can hear how Fíli breathes, feel the warmth and life of his skin, enjoy his strength and answer with his own. He was never particularly interested in sex before Fíli. He'd thought he was a craft-dwarf sometimes because of that.

Now that he's borne children though, he knows he's not. His craft had made him happy, yes. He'd been proud of his accomplishments and his mastery, and still is. Almost nothing makes him happier than transcribing, even now, or his art. But having children makes him happier, and he loves his children more than any book or drawing he's ever worked on. 

He loves Fíli more than any book or drawing, and when Fíli is inside him, like now, when it's them in their safe bed, and Fíli is warm and in him, oh, he's so happy right now. Before this baby had happened, he had hoped so much that the twins hadn't taxed his body beyond its limits, that he could still have just one more. He loves his boys, adores them, but he had still felt like he was waiting for at least one more. And bearing, having that piece of Fíli in him, that proof of their love and their marriage to his own doubts, has always been a happy time for him. 

Fíli inhales sharply, pushing in hard, and hisses, “Mahal's name, I love this. I love being inside you, love your legs around my waist, love you, I love you -” Fíli always talks during sex, unless he's genuinely angry with the world or very, very jealous.

That sex is always good, but not appropriate now when it wouldn't just be Ori thrown on the floor and fucked like a whore all night. He does miss that though. Once or twice, he's teased Fíli, been a flirt on purpose just to try and get that reaction, but it's never worked. Fíli has laughed, has made fun of the ones he's flirted with. Once Ori isn't heavy with a baby though, and the attention he gets from some sparks back up, maybe they can do that again, every once in awhile.

He's talking now, and Ori likes that a whole lot too actually, loves being adored and wanted. 

Ori comes first, not unusual now when he's bearing and it doesn't take much longer for Fíli to jerk against him, his mouth pressed hard to the crutch of Ori' neck and shoulder. “I love you,” he says, again, stilling. He pulls out, and hitches his trousers back up before joining Ori on the bed, his arm going around Ori as they kiss some more. “Better?” Ori asks, and gets a laugh. 

“Sex makes everything better,” Fíli replies, clearly more relaxed. 

“It does,” Ori agrees, sitting up. “Just a moment.” 

Fíli chuckles. “Damn brat. Better you than me though.” Ori rolls his eyes at him, leaving the bedroom doors open behind him as he goes through their private sitting room and into their bathroom. Unfortunately, this is one side effect of bearing. Once he's done, he takes a minute to study himself in the big looking glass. In just his nightshirt, he shows quite a bit. It's always odd, how his body changes during this time. He's not fat, exactly. His limbs are all still around the same size, his face a bit rounder, but not much so. Maybe if he was more evened out, it wouldn't look so odd. 

That said, Fíli has mentioned a few times that he... _enjoys_ the way Ori looks when he's bearing. It mostly makes Ori roll his eyes. 

He wants this one to be a girl, if he's honest, even though he's be happy with anyone. Just one will do. One daughter, and he'll be satisfied. A golden boy, a pair with Durin's look to them. He's already been so lucky. A girl though, and no one will ever question the marriage again. They'll see how Mahal meant this, maybe long before he breathed life into Ori that one night. They were always drawn together, the pair of them, even when all they had wanted to do was throttle one another. How many games of soldiers had they played, how many dice games? How many times had Ori been there beside Fíli, giving Fíli the correct argument for his point, mostly through poorly veiled insults? Ori had never possessed Fíli's gift for slippery words, but he'd always known which direction the river should run. 

It's there, standing in his nightshirt and his bare feet, that for the first time, Ori sees what Dori must have. Dori had always encouraged Fíli to come around, had always begged Ori to be nicer to Fíli, more friendly-like. Ori had been frustrated with him, not understanding just what his elder brother saw in him. Who cared if he was a prince, he was an arrogant sodding idiot, but whenever Ori had expressed that, Dori had smiled in that _way_. 

Now, suddenly, he knows what Dori saw, and he laughs to himself until he starts to cry. Damn him, damn him for knowing bloody everything. He goes back into the bedroom, still crying, and Fíli all but flies from the bed to Ori's side, taking him by the arms. “What's wrong? Is it the baby? I knew we shouldn't have, damn it, I knew it,” and he's cut off by Ori shaking his head and smiling. “What? What is it, my love?”

“Dori knew.” Because Ori can suddenly see those infuriating, secretive smiles, as clear as day, and he cries against Fíli's shoulder. Sometimes, he cannot clearly remember Dori's face, but right now, right in this instant, he can, and it aches, a good ache. A lovely ache that makes his stomach hurt, but not his heart. “Dori knew I'd love you one day.”

Fíli holds him tight, kisses his forehead. Even now, three decades later, it still hurts, and Fíli knows exactly what Ori is feeling. “Damn it, was there anything Dori didn't know?” 

And Ori laughs again, laughs and laughs, as his husband-king holds him tightly. “No,” he says, smiling. “No, I don't know that there was.”

♦

Bombur is lingering in the doorway that leads to the private part of the shop, his hulking frame blocking anyone else from coming in. Probably for the best. Bofur's not up for company. His pipe and the bottle of spirits on the table will do for now. Perhaps for quite awhile.

His brother doesn't look pleased with him. Surprise, surprise. “You cannot do this.” 

“Watch me,” Bofur replies, playing with the glass. Funny. They could never have afforded glasses in Ered Luin. They had tin cups there. “I miss our tin cups.”

There's a huff, and Bombur comes into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him, blocking out Bofur's nosier apprentices and employees. “You don't miss the tin cups.”

“He loved me first.” It's not true. A shine, a child's shine, never real love, never his heart. But it feels good to speak it aloud, to claim Ori somehow. “He loved me.”

“All right, you're done with this,” Bombur says, taking the bottle and the glass away. He pours himself a few fingers worth and downs it before he corks the bottle and sets it out of Bofur's reach, but not before holding it up so he can see how much is gone, and the freshly opened seal. “And I'm not sure how you've drunk as much as you have. You know you're required to show your face with Bifur and myself at the ceremonies, right? The king won't be pleased if your hung-over and useless.” 

Bofur knocks the glass over when he swings his hand out, angry. “Fuck the king.” 

“You don't mean that,” Bombur counsels, quite correctly. Damn Fíli, but Bofur cannot even hate him. “He's a good king, and he loves Ori and their children well. They're happy. Ori is happy. If you truly love Ori, you'll find a way to love him being happy.” 

Bofur scowls. “Got another in him. Thirty years, and he's got a fourth in him. How does that even happen?” 

“Are you asking me?” Bombur raises one impressive eyebrow. 

“No, suppose not. But you've had...what, a hundred years and a few more proper to make that brood of yours?” Bombur had married Roshni so long ago, Bofur hardly remembers their family without her, the imposing sell-axe with the heavily beaded hair. “Why'd she marry you, again?”

“She liked my cooking,” Bombur rumbles good-naturedly. “And she liked my jokes.” 

“Liked your cock too,” Bofur jokes, but Bombur doesn't laugh. “You know, those weeks I was living with him in that great big house, I'd watch him do things. Make tea. Fuss over his papers. I watched him, and I finally saw he wasn't a child any more. Some time when I wasn't looking properly, I guess.” He misses the bottle, but Bombur is probably right, because he feels like putting his head down on the table and falling asleep for a little bit. “And then I saw him being sick all the time. Couldn't eat anything. Cleaned the rooms we lived in top to bottom twice in one day. And I knew.”

Bombur reaches across the table, and pets Bofur's head. Oh, he's lying down now, when did he decide that? “Brother-mine...”

“I offered.”

Now his little brother is quiet, still stroking Bofur's hair, his hat somewhere. Not on his head. Bofur doesn't think he's ever confided that, that when Ori came home from the healers, pacing back and forth, biting at his thumbnail, Bofur had offered Ori a marriage with him. Another life. But Ori had not answered, had instead told Bofur he needed to speak with someone. Ducked out past Bofur, disappeared for the night and a day.

And then it had been announced, a day later. A child to secure the dynasty. A marriage. 

“Bloody hate everything.”

“Yes, well, you can bloody hate everything from a bed,” Bombur says, and before Bofur can do much to argue, Bombur has bodily pulled him out of the chair, slinging one of Bofur's arms around his massive shoulders and easily hefting most of his weight. “C'mon, up with you. Feet on the ground, head in the air.”

“Thank you, I bloody well know how to stand,” Bofur claims, and all but takes a header into the table.

“Do you now?” Bombur asks disbelievingly, steadying him. Out of the workshop and on the main floor of the shop, Bofur's apprentices and shopkeeper scurry out of the way, one opening the door for Bombur. Little ingrates. One of them turned him into Bombur, he just knows it. They're all out to get him. 

Bofur's embarrassed to admit it, but he passes out somewhere between his shop and the family home. He comes to hours later with a dry mouth and a marrow-deep ache in his joints. His chest is constricted when he moves, and in his muddled, almost sober thoughts, he knows he needs to stop drinking like this when his anger at the world gets to be too much. His body can only take so much abuse, and Mahal knows he gave it its fair share working in the mines all those years. The drink is adding insult to injury.

He's only thinking this because he's facing the consequences now. In a few weeks or months, or even a few days, when he feels that ache in his heart, he'll pick up another bottle. 

He needs the toilet. Damn, but he needs to pace himself better at the very least. 

When he gets back to his bedroom, after relieving himself, washing his face, and drinking from his cupped hands, he feels more rational. “What?” he asks, because Bombur is in his bedroom, apparently having heard him get up. He's at least left the lights low, so Bofur can just make him out. “Already time for my next lecture?” 

“Same lecture. We were interrupted.” Bofur doesn't feel up to standing any more, so he lies back down in his bed. 

He never would have even imagined a bed such as this one in Ered Luin. He'd slept on a camp bed most of the time, or when he could be home, in a bed he shared with Bifur, Bombur and his wife in the other proper bed next door. The children had been everywhere, sometimes two little ones in bed with Bofur and Bifur if the winter was bad, the babies in with their parents. Now he has this grand bed all to himself. 

The pillows are cool against his cheek, and smell freshly laundered. “Where's my hat?”

“Roshni got a hold of it. Says she's going to burn it.” 

Bofur groans. His sister's hatred of his hat is well known, and now that they're in Erebor, and can afford a hundred new hats, she's made it her life mission to get a hold of the thing and destroy it. “Did you save it?”

“Shouldn't have. Might teach you a lesson.” 

“What? That Roshni is cruel?” He turns over onto his belly. Someone, likely Bombur and his eldest boy, had stripped Bofur of most of his layers when he was dead to the world, which he's grateful for. His stomach is churning unpleasantly, and the sound of something being poured is music to his ears. His thoughtful, wonderful brother has brought up some chilled ginger water for him, and it helps. “Aye, but she is a lucky woman to have you.” He sloshes some in his moustache and a bit down in his front, but that's all right. He has far many more than just three shirts now after all. 

Bombur sits on the bed, the heavy frame not even creaking under his weight. Sign of a well-built bed. Money they never had, never once in their whole lives. A hunter, a baker, and a toymaker, living here, in this house, with this fine furniture. “I know why you do it. If I had to watch Roshni with another, in love with another...I can see the pain you're in.” 

“Then why do you stop me?”

“Because I love you, and it's not going to help anything. You were doing real well for awhile there. What set you off?” He refills Bofur's glass for him. “You knew the new baby was coming. I thought you had made your peace with the matter?” 

“Never going to be at peace with it,” Bofur replies. “Bilbo is here, you know.” 

“Yes, I noticed,” Bombur drawls, and through the fog, Bofur realizes how stupid that question was. “He came to visit. Met Roshni and the kids.” 

Bofur puts the empty cup on the table beside the bed, and lies back down. His bed doesn't have a canopy, or curtains. He's still not sure what the point of those are. He feels safer being able to see the stone above his head and the space around him. Now, he works out the pattern in the raw stone of his bedroom, sealed against water and unwanted visitors, but otherwise left just the way it was carved. “He mourns him, still.”

“Did you think he wouldn't? You cannot love someone such as Thorin Oakenshield, and expect your heart to heal from the loss.” He sighs. “Feel sorry for the burglar. At least we have one another, our family.” When Bofur sighs, Bombur asks in a much colder tone, “Would you rather Ori dead so you could mope about and mourn properly?” 

“Never,” Bofur answers firmly, the thought unbearable. He'd rather bear this pain forever than see Ori's light snuffed out, even if he does have to watch him with Fíli. Bofur had never disliked the lad, had found him funny, him and Kíli both. Fíli had become admirable over these years, even, a true king. Bofur is proud to serve him, honestly. Proud to serve the Prince who reclaimed Erebor and took the Raven Crown, the slayer of Azog, the Kind King, the Lion King. 

But that's the problem. He's more than any other royal, he's a king from a faerie story, just as Thorin was. Was it any wonder Ori had chosen him over a toymaker? Bearing the children of Durin's line, being the Prince Consort to this king. What could Bofur have offered, beyond his love, when it wasn't returned? Fíli had not even pretended to love Ori when they were married, nor had Ori. 

There'd been something between them other than love though, if Bofur is honest. There had been _trust_. Bofur only wishes Ori could have trusted him that way as well. 

“Do you ever wish we had gone back to Ered Luin?” 

“What would we have done in Ered Luin?” Bombur asks, getting off the bed with a heave of strength. “We're nobs here. We have power. Wealth. And the boys needed us. Fíli and Kíli both. No one else was looking out for them in the beginning, once Dáin went home. We had a duty to them.” He shrugs. “Besides, if I remember right, you and Bifur burned most of our bridges in Ered Luin. We couldn't have gone back, and you know it. Erebor was our only hope.” 

Bofur groans, throwing his arm over his face. “Nori was involved with most of that, you know.”

“That's because wherever you were, Nori was, and wherever the two of you were together, trouble showed up too. You know, I always thought the two of you had something...”

Bofur doesn't blame him for thinking it. He and Nori had always been close mates, from the first day. But no, there had never been love between them. “Nori gave his love away long before he met me, and we didn't speak on it. Ever. I tried once, and he threatened to cut my beard off if I did again. Ended badly, I suppose.” Nori had always been volatile about certain subjects. Everything else about him was fun, easy-going. But his brothers, his mother, and his love were all cracked shale, not safe for even a rat to walk on. “Speaking of Nori, he'll be back in a day or so. Whenever he shows up, I guess.”

“Sounds like Nori,” Bombur says. “No more drink, not until all this is over. Then you can drink yourself stupid and I'll even hold your hat when you're sick. For now, we'll be the nobles the old nobs don't think we can, yeah?” He claps Bofur on the shoulder, and leaves him be, leaves him alone in the room.

There's a few bottles hidden in the wardrobe. He's been hoarding it for the ceremonies, waiting until he could not bear the constant reminders. It's not so bad, on a daily basis, surprisingly enough. It is what it is, and Bofur is a grown adult. He can handle it, and enjoy his friendship with Ori. But now, when he hears everyone speaking, _praising_ , their magnificent king and his obviously loving marriage, his beautiful children, it's different. It gets to him, digs under and finds the parts of his heart that he hates to acknowledge. Thus the drink. 

He wants his pipe. 

No, better to just sleep now. Sleep it off, so no one worries in the morning. Last thing Ori needs in his state is to be worrying, and he will. He might not love Bofur, but they are friends, and he cares. 

“Damn you, Thorin Oakenshield,” he says distantly. “Damn you too, Dori. Damn you both.”

“Now now, no need to drag my brother down as well,” Nori drawls from the corner, scaring half the life out of Bofur. He's not sober enough to do much beyond shouting out a few swears and grabbing at a pillow for protection before he realizes just who his visitor is. “One of that gaggle of your brother's let me in. Was having a kip in the corner. Thought I'd give you a bit of a fright, until your touching brotherly moment woke me up. Now budge over.”

He doesn't wait, pushing Bofur over and climbing into the bed. It isn't as though the bed isn't big enough. Doing this was harder when all they had was a camp bed. Nori is all elbows and knees, and he tends to kick. 

Bofur closes his eyes, embarrassed. “How much did you hear?”

Nori snorts. “Did you really think I didn't know?” He huffs. “Didn't know if I should even say anything. Mostly because I want to punch you when I think about it, seeing as how I can't punch the one who actually caused all the trouble.”

“Ori is a willing participant in that trouble. You've seen him with Fíli.”

“Seen him with his bloody hands all over my little brother. He's like a child with a favourite toy.” 

Bofur clumsily reaches over and pats Nori somewhere on his chest. “I always miss your particular strain of pettiness.” He turns his head to look at his oldest friend. “You could stay, you know. Just stay this time. You know you want to, and you could get to know the boys.” Much as the circumstances hurt, Bofur has always loved Ori's children. 

“We've talked about this,” Nori warns. “Don't think I won't punch you just because you're drunk.”

“Why would I think that? You hit me with an oar once.” 

“You deserved it.” Bofur was rather drunk at the time, unfortunately, and the blow had sort of ended up making the whole night foggy for him. “And you know how it'll be if I try. It'll be on their terms.”

“They're their children, you numpty, of course it will be. And Ori still loves you. Fíli will give him the damn moon if he asks for it, he'll certainly let him handle you on his own.” As much as Fíli fills a room, the marriage is equal, as far as Bofur knows, and Fíli defers to Ori when Ori tells him too. He's seen it happen more than once, Ori chastising Fíli for his temper and demanding the floor in his place. “You can't spend the rest of your life with your heart closed off. Dori and your mam are gone. It's just you and Ori now. You could love those boys if you let yourself.” 

Nori rolls over, his back to Bofur. “Why do you think I don't love them?”

“Because you behave as though you cannot be bothered with their existence when you're here. I've never known you to be cruel, not as you are to them -”

“Dírin curls up in alcoves, or corners. Sits there with books for hours and hours. He gets the same look on his face when he reads. And he draws. With his left hand. Just like Ori.” Nori's voice is steady, but sad and lost. 

_Oh_.

Bofur has no desire to force his friend to speak when he doesn't want to, so now Bofur rolls to his own side, curling himself around Nori. “Sorry if I get sick on you,” he warns.

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art of the family by the lovely Sparkle:
> 
> [Fíli, Ori, and their boys plus the new baby](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/90962464333/fili-ori-and-their-children-dirin-torin-and)


End file.
